AGLE  CLIPPINGS 


BY 


-JACK  THORNR" 

NEWSPAPER  CORRESPONDENT 

A  If  9 

STORY  TELLER 


s 


CLASS  0F1886;PH.D.  THE  JOHNS  HOPKINS  UNIVERSITY 


OF   THE 

HJUVERSirUT  of  mmkii  camm 


©F 


3L, 


vcd no  46~ 

F97tL 


1 

KB® 

Mb 

«tt!K 

^Ojfr 

J^  i^jX-"?^^ 

i^^Jfc  j 

This  book  must  not 
be  taken  from  the 
Library  building. 


AUTHORS    CORRECTIONS. 


15th  page,   14th  line  from  bottom:  "to  see  shackled  hands" 

26th    page,     13th    line    from    top:    "a    very    unpleasant — yea    ag- 
gravating  malady." 

Page    29,    4th    line    from    top:    "a   cry    of    indignation    that    would 
have   shaken   the  very   temple   of  the   Caesars" 

45th    page,    8th    line    from    top:    "Two    boy    criminals";    5th    line 
from   bottom   R.   S.   King's   letter:   "let   the  law   enjoy   its"   etc. 

106th    page,    14th   line   from   top:    "high   ceilinged   room" 

81st  page,   9th   line   from  top:   "Stoically  returning  a  blow   given 
in  jest" 

DAVID   B.    FULTON,    Publisher 

I59-6l     WlLLOUGHBY     AVE. 

Brooklyn,   N.  Y. 
Read  carefully  Introductory  Note,  please. 


L.avinia  k/£..   tTultot 


\jack  <J/iorne" 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013        v 


http://archive.org/details/eagleclippingsOOthor 


a 


EAGLE  CLIPPINGS" 


BY 


JACK   THORNE    pS^ 


NEWSPAPER    CORRESPONDENT    AND 
STORY     TELLER 


A    COLLECTION    OF    HIS    WRITINGS    TO 
VARIOUS     NEWSPAPERS 


GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  THE  SONS 
OF  NORTH  CAROLINA,  OF  BOROUGH 
OF    BROOKLYN,    CITY    OF    NEW    YORK 


Copyrighted  by  D.  B.  Fulton 
All  rights  reserved 


3fatrolmctorp  J£ote 


It  zvas  said  to  me  one  day,  by  a  once  highly  esteemed 
friend  of  mine,  during  a  hot  controversy  over  a  disputed 
bill  for  printing,  that  I  was  an  eccentric  on  the  Race  ques- 
tion. This  taunt  from  the  lips  of  one  of  my  own  people,  a 
man  who  had  my  confidence,  who  seemed  heartily  in  sym- 
pathy with  me,  advising  me  in  the  construction  of  at  least 
a  few  of  my  many  contributions  to  daily  and  weekly  papers, 
somewhat  chilled  $>y  ardor  in  the  work  of  defense — for 
after  all,  in  all  of  my  writings  on  the  Race  question,  I  have 
simply  been  on  the  defensive,  answering  traducers  and  en- 
deavoring to  ward  off  the  blows  aimed  at  my  people  by  the 
enemy. 

When  constructing  Hanover,  many  of  my  friends  who 
listened  to  the  readings,  were  apprehensive  and  fearful  for 
my  safety,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  was  so  far  removed 
from  the  scene  of  the  awful  tragedy  which  the  story  relates. 
Other  readers  of  Hanover  and  other  contributions  have 
said  with  no  feigned  anxiety,  "Your  pen  is  a  very  venomous 
weapon.  You  are  doubtless  right;  I  admire  your  grit, 
but  you  might  make  it  a  trifle  milder,"  etc.  These  appre- 
hensions were  not  without  warrant.  I  fully  believe  that  the 
attempt  on  the  part  of  the  officials  of  the  institution  in 
which  I  was  employed  for  four  years,  to  injure  my  reputa- 
tion, and  send  me  from  their  employ,  branded  as  a  felon, 
-*»  was  the  result  of  my  defense  of  my  people  in  the  columns 

v")  of  the  "Eagle" ;  that  the  "Eagle's"  final  refusal  to  further 

consider   my    contributions,   are    the   result   of   influences 

r-  3 


brought  to  bear  from  the  same  source.  Yet  in  the  follow- 
ing pages  I  will  prove  to  the  reader  that  every  article  from 
my  pen  upon  the  Race  question  was  called  forth  by  the 
anamidversions  hurled  from  the  other  side. 

Although  the  entire  contents  of  this  little  book  are  not 
clippings  from  the  columns  of  the  "Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle," 
I  have  thought  it  best  to  give  it  the  title  "Eagle  Clippings," 
because  I  hold  the  "Eagle"  in  high  esteem  for  its  broad 
democracy  and  bravery  in  the  treatment  of  its  corre- 
spondents. 

"The  Eagle,"  a  Democratic  organ,  professes  no  friend- 
ship for  the  Negro  race,  yet  it  has  generally  allowed  the 
writer  to  wage  battles  through  its  columns  by  giving  abund- 
ant space  for  articles  that  were  considered  by  the  friendly 
Republican  editors  too  sweeping  for  publication.  On  ac- 
count of  the  "Eagle's"  often  disparaging  editorials  on  the 
Race  question,  many  of  my  friends  have  purchased  a  copy 
of  the  paper  only  when  informed  that  an  article  of  mine  zvas 
forthcoming. 

To  such  friends  is  this  little  volume  especially  presented, 
that  they  may  enjoy  some  of  the  many  contributions  on  sub- 
jects nearest  their  hearts  and  mine. 

I  plead  for  the  acceptance  of  this  little  volume,  not  alone 
because  of  my  bold  defense  of  my  people  I  became  the 
object  of  the  spleen  of  those  who  possessed  the  power  to  rob 
me  of  the  means  of  support,  but  because  its  contents  are  the 
outpourings  of  a  heart  full  of  love  for  a  maligned  race  and 
jealous  of  their  wrongs.  While,  no  doubt,  other  contribu- 
tors have  been  enabled  to  demand  something  for  their  time 
and  talents,  the  author  of  "Eagle  Clippings"  has  been  glad 
to,  so  far,  be  so  indulged  in  the  prosecution  of  his  loved 
work  as  to  have  it  accepted  gratis  by  the  great  "Brooklyn 
Daily  Eagle"  and  other  periodicals.  This  should  kindle 
a  sympathetic  flame  in  the  hearts  of  my  friends,  for  I  be- 
lieve I  have  many,  to  compensate  me  for  the  labors  in 
behalf  of  the  race. 

JACK  THORN E. 


THE  DEATH  OF  LAVINA  ROBINSON  FULTON. 


(From  The  Standard  Union.) 


Lavinia  Robinson  Fulton,  mother  of  D.  B.  Fulton,  better 
known  as  "Jack  Thorne,"  and  one  of  the  strongest  writers 
of  the  race,  died  at  her  late  residence,  465  Baltic  Street,  last 
Monday  evening,  from  paralysis.  The  funeral  services 
will  be  held  to-morrow  at  2  P.  M.  at  the  Concord  Baptist 
Church  of  Christ.  I% 

Lavinia  Robinson  was  born  in  Bobeson  County,  North 
Carolina,  about  sixty-seven  years  ago.  She  was  the  eldest 
of  fourteen  children  of  Hamlet  and  Amy  Robinson.  Sent 
away  from  her  parents  at  a  very  early  age,  she  grew  up  as 
many  slave  children,  without  the  affection,  love  and  counsel 
of  a  mother.  Through  the  indulgence  of  her  master  she 
learned  when  very  young  to  read  the  Bible  and  was  con- 
verted when  about  thirteen  years  of  age.  She  entered  the 
Baptist  Church  of  which  her  master  was  deacon,  and  was 
baptized  by  the  Rev.  James  McDonald,  a  famous  Scotch 
divine,  known  as  the  "silver-tongued  orator  of  the  Cumber- 
land," the  Talmage  of  the  early  40's.  Although  like  all 
slave  women,  environed  by  circumstances  in  no  way  con- 
ducive to  upright  living,  Lavinia  Robinson  Fulton  lived  a 
pure,  upright  and  consistent  life,  always  seeking  the  com- 
panionship of  those  whose  lives  accorded  with  her  own. 
Married  to  Benjamin  Fulton  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  she 
bore  him  ten  children,  five  of  whom  now  live,  four  in 
Brooklyn.  One  is  with  the  father  in  North  Carolina.  To 
her  children  she  was  never  demonstrative,  but  sought  to 
prepare  them  for  the  real  earnest  battle  of  life.  She  set- 
tled in  Wilmington  in  1867,  and  saw  in  the  American  Mis- 
sionary Association,  then  at  work  among  the  freedmen 
there,  the  much  desired  opportunity  to  improve  herself  and 
educate  her  children,  and  immediately  put  herself  in  touch 
with  these  people.    In  1875  sne  became  one  of  the  founders 


of  the  First  Congregational  Church,  of  Wilmington,  N.  C. 
Every  opportunity  for  moral,  religious  and  intellectual  ad- 
vancement her  children  have  enjoyed  has  come  to  them 
through  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  and  the  sterling  Chris- 
tian character  of  this  mother.  Her  nearly  ten  years'  resi- 
dence in  Brooklyn  have  been  years  of  unceasing  toil,  yet 
she  never  let  pass  an  opportunity  to  speak  a  word  for  her 
Master  whom  she  has  faithfully  and  unwaveringly  followed, 
going  out  when  the  opportunity  presented  itself  to  partici- 
pate in  the  Salvation  Army  services  to  which  she  had  be- 
come very  much  attached.  Her  children  never  grew  too  old 
to  be  her  constant  care  and  anxiety  and  the  burden  of  her 
prayers. 


Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  July  16,  1904. 
Mr.  Benjamin  Fulton, 

Middle  Sound,  North  Carolina. 
Dear  Brother  Ben  : — 

The  enclosed  clipping  is  the  press  announcement  of  the 
death  of  mother  which  occurred  on  the  4th  instant.  She 
was  ill  but  a  very  short  period.  Up  to  about  three  months 
ago,  she  was  apparently  in  the  best  of  health;  in  fact,  her 
health  was  generally  better  here  than  in  the  South.  But 
being  constantly  on  the  go,  she  contracted  quite  a  good  deal 
of  cold.  Sister  Hattie  tried  to  persuade  her  more  than  a 
year  ago  to  take  a  rest,  but  she  would  not  until  compelled 
to  give  up.  She  died  as  she  lived,  a  devoted  mother,  an 
earnest  Christian.  When  the  end  came  she  was  at  sister's, 
and  we  all  were  with  her  but  you.  She  had,  since  the  riots 
at  Wilmington,  expressed  an  unwillingness  to  be  buried 
there,  so  we  buried  her  here,  and  the  funeral  was  attended 
by  many  old  Wilmington  friends.  No  nobler  mother  ever 
lived;  no  truer  Christian  ever  died.  She  desired  much  to 
see  you ;  will  you  make  it  your  aim  to  meet  her  on  the  other 
side?  May  we  hear  from  you  soon?  I  would  have  writ- 
ten you  sooner,  but  I  have  just  gotten  your  address  from 
Mrs.  Powell.  Hoping  that  you  all  are  very  well,  I  am, 
Yours  affectionately, 

DAVID. 

502  Fulton  Street. 


A  DOCK  LABORER 


Experiences  of  One  Man  Who  Came  to  the  Metropolis  in 
the  Late  Eighties,  Looking  for  Honest  Employment. 


(From  The  Brooklyn  Citizen.) 


From  the  time  of  my  arrival  in  New  York  in  '87,  and 
entering  the  employ  of  the  Pullman  Palace  Car  Co.  in  '88, 
up  to  Dec,  1905,  I  had  been  able  to  give  a  pretty  accurate 
account  of  my  time — nine  years  in  the  Palace  car  service, 
four  years  in  a  large  music  house  in  New  York  City,  two 
years  at  odd  jobs,  and  at  the  close  of  the  year  1905  I  had 
about  wound  up  four  years  in  the  employ  of  the  Central 
Branch  of  The  Young  Men's  Christian  Association  of 
Brooklyn,  feeling  that  a  change  of  atmosphere  would  per- 
haps conduce  toward  the  strengthening  of  my  faith  in  the 
efficacy  of  Christian  religion  which  contact  with  "Scribes" 
had  somewhat  weakened.  The  uninitiated,  perusing  the 
columns  of  the  great  New  York  dailies  with  their  innumer- 
able "Help  Wanted"  advertisements,  would  readily  conclude 
that  the  seeking  of  employment  in  the  great  Metropolis 
need  be  no  irksome  task  to  any  one.  But  the  major  por- 
tion of  these  want  ads.  are  mere  will-o'-the-wisps,  put  there 
apparently  to  tantalize  and  to  throw  into  the  abyss  of  des- 
pair honest  seekers  after  the  tangible.  Such  announce- 
ments as  "Wanted — Cooks,  waiters,  chambermaids,  coach- 
men, butlers,  hall-boys,  bellmen,  laundresses,"  etc.,  etc.,  are 
invariably  the  fabrications  of  unscrupulous  employment 
agents,  who  spread  their  nets  to  catch  the  unwary,  whose 
money  they  greedily  pocket  and  hurry  them  off  to  fill  posi- 
tions which,  to  their  knowledge,  are  already  filled  through 


other  agencies.  Experience  had  taught  me  that  in  seeking 
work  in  New  York,  both  of  these  mediums  were  to  be 
eschewed.  My  first  position,  which  cost  me  just  half  of  my 
fortune,  was  a  place  way  out  in  Fordham,  where  I  was  en- 
gaged to  drive  a  horse  and  milk  the  cow.  I  knew  little 
about  horses  and  nothing  about  cows.  In  less  than  a  week 
I  had  broken  the  shaft  of  the  man's  buggy,  was  dismissed, 
and  with  my  belongings  was  on  my  way  back  to  the  shrewd 
son  of  Abraham,  who  had  followed  me  to  the  door  on  the 
day  of  my  departure  from  his  office,  rubbing  his  clammy 
hands  and  whining:  "Eef  th'  blace  dus  nod  suit  you,  vhy 
cum  back  an'  I  gif  you  a  nudder."  But  when  he  saw  me 
approaching  the  office  a  second  time  he  met  me  at  the  door 
and,  holding  up  his  hands  in  feigned  horror,  swore  by  the 
beard  of  the  prophet  that  he  had  fulfilled  his  contract  and 
would  do  no  more.  If  he  did  not  see  greenness  in  my  face, 
he  took  the  chance  at  bluffing  me  out  of  three  dollars,  and 
succeeded.  This  well-remembered  experience  turned  me 
into  other  channels  in  search  of  work  this  time.  Accepting 
the  agency  of  a  Health  and  Accident  Insurance  Company, 
at  the  end  of  a  month  of  canvassing  I  had  on  my  book  the 
names  of  a  host  of  sympathetic  friends  who,  although  well 
provided  for  in  that  line,  were,  on  account  of  their  great 
love  for  me,  ready  to  invest  in  more  insurance.  One  very 
dear  friend  to  whom  I  thought  I  had  convincingly  set  forth 
the  advantages  and  inducements  my  company  offered,  and 
why  a  woman  of  her  environments  and  temperament  would 
profit  by  taking  out  a  policy  therein,  and  who  had,  in  turn, 
eloquently  acquiesced  and  expressed  her  desire  and  de- 
termination to  subscribe,  had  at  the  conclusion  of  two 
weeks,  the  time  appointed  for  the  issuing  of  the  policy,  pre- 
pared such  an  eloquent  speech  in  support  of  a  demurrer, 
that,  after  listening  in  amazement  to  it,  I  threw  aside  my 
insurance  outfit  in  disgust,  purchased  hook  and  overalls  and 
sought  employment  among  the  dock  laborers. 

It  was  in  1892  that  the  Ward  Steamship  Company  of 
New  York  terminated  a  series  of  strikes  among  its  dock 
laborers  and  stevedores,  entailing  great  financial  loss,  by 
substituting  Negro  labor  for  Irish  and  Italian.  The  Irish- 
man is  the  very  embodiment  of  discontent,  the  instigator  of 

8 


nearly  all  the  troubles  in  the  labor  field,  the  inaugurator  of 
political  upheavals  and  race  clashings.  Ever  ready  to  strike 
for  higher  wages  and  shorter  hours,  the  Irishman  would 
burn  his  own  dwelling  from  over  his  head  if  he  thought 
that  thereby  he  might  do  injury  to  an  unyielding  employer. 
The  Ward  Steamship  Company,  financially  embarassed  by 
frequent  revolutions  in  its  labor  department,  and  at  the 
mercy  of  labor  unions  had  yielded  step  by  step  until  the 
longshoreman's  pay  had  advanced  from  thirty  to  forty-five 
cents  an  hour.  But  the  demand  for  fifty  cents  was  the  straw 
that  broke  the  camel's  back.  The  Italians  who,  with  diffi- 
culty supplanted  the  Irish  and  went  into  the  holds  of  the 
ships  to  work  for  twenty-five  cents  per  hour,  were  not  suffi- 
ciently bulky  nor  experienced  to  insure  independence  of  the 
lusty  son  of  Erin,  and  the  Negro,  who,  previous  to  this 
time,  had  only  been  allowed  to  step  in  here  and  there  along 
the  water  front,  was  called  in  to  take  charge  of  the  work  of 
loading  and  discharging  the  great  ships  of  the  Ward  Steam- 
ship Company.  The  Negro  workman,  pushing  out  over 
the  North  and  West,  is  confronted  by  more  serious  and 
exasperating  obstacles  than  any  other  human  creature. 
Securing  work  in  big  corporations  only  as  a  strike-breaker, 
he,  in  many  instances,  has  only  been  retained  until  the  white 
man  chose  to  return  to  work.  But  the  Ward  Steamship 
Company  had  called  to  its  rescue,  men  schooled  in  Yankee 
duplicity,  who  did  not  "turn  to"  until  this  very  important 
matter  was  settled.  But  the  scale  of  wages  made  by  the 
Italian  strike-breaker  was  not  advanced  in  favor  of  the 
efficient  black  stevedore.  And  the  twelve  years  of  unpre- 
cedented prosperity,  during  which  the  company  has  had  to 
double  its  carrying  capacity  by  adding  in  its  fleet  several 
large  and  more  commodious  ships,  an  advance  in  wages 
from  twenty-five  cents  an  hour  so  far  has  never  been 
offered  these  benefactors,  who  freed  the  company  from 
the  meshes  of  labor  unions,  brought  order  out  of  chaos  and 
started  them  on  the  road  to  prosperity.  It  must  not  be  con- 
ceded that  because  of  its  rough  character,  the  work  of 
the  stevedore  is  a  calling  that  does  not  require  intelligence, 
cool-headedness  and  skill ;  for  without  coolness  and  thor- 
ough knowledge  on  the  part  of  those  appointed  to  direct  it, 


the  work  of  loading  and  unloading  these  great  ships  would 
be  attended  by  far  greater  loss  of  life  and  limb  than  is  now 
recorded.  It  was  a  cold  morning  in  the  month  of  February 
when  I  joined  the  anxious  crowd  of  laborers  at  Pier  15, 
East  River,  Brooklyn  side,  waiting  to  be  "shaped."  To  be 
shaped  is  to  secure  at  the  timekeeper's  window  a  brass 
check  with  a  number  engraved  upon  it,  which  is  written  in 
his  book  opposite  your  name,  and  passing  the  foreman  who 
engages  you,  you  call  out  this  number,  which  is  jotted  down 
in  his  book.  On  quitting  work  each  man  calls  out  his  num- 
ber to  the  timekeeper,  and  returning,  reports  both  to  time- 
keeper and  foreman.  "Push  in,"  said  a  sympathetic  fellow, 
noticing  my  embarrassment,  "your  chance  may  be  as  good 
as  the  oldest ;  no  man  has  a  cinch  here." 

"Stand  in  line  and  take  your  turn,"  said  another  man,  as 
he  noticed  me  endeavoring  to  push  my  truck  past  the  fel- 
low in  front  of  me.  "The  Irishman  tries  to  make  a  job 
last  as  long  as  possible,  while  the  Negro  sings  and  runs 
himself  out  of  work."  My  first  day's  work  consisted  of 
unloading  fruit  and  pig  lead;  and  as  I  climbed  the  hill 
homeward  at  the  conclusion  of  the  day  my  limbs  almost 
refused  to  support  me.  The  following  day,  still  sore  and 
stiff  from  the  previous  day's  toil,  I  reported  again  at  Pier 
15,  and  by  sheer  ambition  trudged  through  another  day  of 
the  hardest  toil  of  my  life.  In  discharging  ships,  foremen 
may  employ  as  many  as  twenty  men  in  their  gangs,  but  they 
dwindle  to  sixteen  when  loading.  Failing  to  get  a  "shape" 
on  the  third  day,  I  wended  my  way  back  home  to  return  in 
the  evening  to  try  my  luck  with  the  night  gangs.  To  my 
mind,  it  requires  more  than  ordinary  courage  on  the  part 
of  a  new  and  inexperienced  hand  to  join  a  company  of  men 
going  into  a  ship's  hold  to  store  freight,  aided  only  by  the 
light  of  lanterns.  The  gang  in  which  I  worked  began  in 
the  ship's  hold  to  be  shifted  to  the  docks,  and  from  thence 
off  shore  to  hoist  freight  from  one  of  the  many  lighters 
which  flanked  the  great  vessel.  The  angry,  black  waters, 
lashed  into  fury  by  the  fierce  cold  winds,  seemed  anxiously 
waiting  to  swallow  into  its  depths  the  timid  wretch  who, 
stumbling  blindly  over  the  many  pitfalls,  chanced  to  miss 
his  footing.     This,  together  with  the  oaths  of  the  experi- 

10 


enced  and  unsympathetic  workmen,  the  ear-piercing  calls 
of  the  gangwayman,  the  deafening  roar  of  machinery  so 
exasperated  and  confused  me  that  I  was  tempted  to  climb 
back  upon  the  dock  and  scamper  off  for  home.  But  as  the 
night  grew  old  and  the  owl-like  hoot  of  craft  in  the  great 
harbor  lessened,  the  lights  in  the  distant  towers  went  out 
one  by  one  and  the  great  bridge,  no  longer  disturbed  by 
moving  cars  and  the  tread  of  restless  feet,  stood  there  calm 
and  tranquil  in  the  glimmering  shadows,  I  became  more 
reconciled  to  my  surroundings  and  the  task  became  less  irk- 
some. Current  stories  of  crime,  of  midnight  assassinations, 
of  suicides,  give  New  York  harbor  at  dead  of  night  a  weird 
and  fantastic  aspect.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  this  it  is  a  fasci- 
nating sight.  I  soon  discovered  that  one  man's  chances 
were  not,  if  green,  as  good  as  another  old  and  experienced 
hand,  and  justly  so.  The  mastery  of  stevedore  work  is  as 
difficult  a  task  as  the  mastery  of  algebra,  it  seems  to  me. 
It  was  perfectly  natural  for  the  foremen  to  cull  out  the  men 
whom  they  knew  could  do  creditable  work.  My  first  em- 
ployer was  Capt.  John  Simonds  (colored),  who  was  doubt- 
less moved  more  by  my  willingness  than  my  value  as  a 
workman,  and  though  I  got  in  now  and  then  with  Powell, 
with  Rainey  and  with  Butler,  it  seemed  less  difficult  to  shape 
with  Simonds.  For  quite  a  month  or  more  I  beat  about  the 
decks,  following  the  gangs  from  pier  to  pier  and  from  sugar 
house  to  sugar  house  with  varying  luck.  One  evening  at 
Erie  Basin,  I  joined  the  gang  of  a  foreman  whom  they 
called  "Buster  Brown."  "Buster  Brown"  was  a  wild,  swear- 
ing Negro  of  the  Guinea  type,  with  protruding  forehead, 
staring  eyes  and  heavy  lips  that  could  utter  oaths  and  filthy 
epithets  that  would  put  a  pirate  to  blush.  Brown  was  the 
type  of  Negro  indespensable  to  the  overseer  of  the  slave 
plantation,  who  wished  to  wring  out  the  very  last  drop  of 
blood  from  his  chattels;  who  often  as  "drivers"  strung  up 
and  lashed  their  own  mothers.  It  is  a  type  of  native  used  by 
the  British  now  plundering  South  Africa,  to  get  the  most 
out  of  the  workers  in  the  mines.  This  fellow  kept  the  air 
lurid  with  oaths  and  vulgarity,  buldozing  the  men,  threat- 
ening them  with  his  fist  and  with  his  gun,  and  in  turn  cring- 
ing like  a  cur  when  addressed  by  the  white  supervisor.     I 

II 


looked  at  this  Negro  both  in  pity  and  disgust  and  wondered 
what  kind  of  a  home  it  was  over  which  he  presided. 
Although  the  night  was  cold  and  men  were  constantly 
dropping  out  to  warm  up  at  a  near-by  saloon,  I  stuck  to  my 
post  lest  the  impetuosity  of  this  foreman  tempt  me  to  lay 
his  thick  head  upon  the  dock  and  thereby  lose  a  night's 
work.  Fortunately,  "Buster  Brown"  is  not  the  prevailing 
type  of  stevedore;  I  found  a  sufficient  number  of  sober,  in- 
dustrious and  goodly  disposed  men  engaged  in  work  there 
to  make  it  quite  a  pleasant  place  to  be.  There  are  many 
incidents  during  my  employ  there  on  the  docks  that  I  re- 
call with  pleasure,  for  I  believe  the  Negro  works  with  a 
lighter  heart,  and  infuses  more  music  and  fun  into  labor 
than  any  other  human  being.  Most  of  these  men  are  from 
Virginia  and  the  Carolinas,  where  music  and  laughter  drive 
away  the  irksomeness  of  toil.  No  group  of  men  was  with- 
out its  jester,  who  was  often  a  Godsend  to  the  discouraged 
and  melancholy.  I  recall  with  a  great  deal  of  mirth  the 
side-splitting  jokes  gotten  off  by  "Squire  Rigger"  on 
"Sheep"  and  "Sheep's"  witty  retorts  and  sarcastic  flings  at 
"Rabbit,"  or  Philip  Hooper's  droll,  yet  mirth-provoking 
tales  of  his  adventures.  Phil  had  traveled  extensively  and 
worked  at  nearly  every  imaginable  calling  in  the  labor 
world,  and  his  retentive  memory  was  never  taxed  for  some 
interesting,  instructive  and  yet  amusing  story. 


12 


THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY. 


To  Mr.  Jno.  E.  Robinson,  Ed.  of  The  "Mirror." 


To  some  of  us  who  had  lived  South  where  most  city 
streets  are  wide  sandy  deserts,  the  first  invasion  of  Broad- 
way, New  York,  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment; for  this  lovely  old  thoroughfare  which,  beginning 
at  Battery  Park,  winds  like  a  river  northward  through 
Manhattan  Island  is  anything  but  "broad."  Often  as  I 
stood  upon  the  curbstone  of  this  overcrowded  street,  have  I 
imagined  that  I  could  hear  its  painful  cry  of  protest  as  it 
groaned  under  the  weight  of  traffic,  and  wishing  that  the 
clumsy  vehicles  of  commerce  might  be  driven  into  some 
other  avenue,  so  that  the  stranger,  proud  of  its  fame  might 
with  less  annoyance  and  apprehension  feast  his  eyes  upon 
the  historic  landmarks  that  border  it  on  either  side.  When 
I  first  behold  Broadway,  Jake  Sharp's  bribery  had  deprived 
it  somewhi  t  of  its  attractiveness ;  for  the  horse-car  had  just 
invaded  it,  adding  to  the  congestion  and  consequent  discom- 
fort of  pedestrians,  and  changing  it  from  the  aristocratic 
highway  of  hansom  cabs  of  former  times. 

In  spite  of  the  protest  of  the  citizens  of  the  great 
metropolis,  "cabby,"  with  his  smart  livery,  his  soft,  suave 
and  polite  "want-a-cab  ?"  was  to  be  forever  hushed  by  the 
ear-piercing  jingle  of  the  car  bells  and  the  coarse  yells  of 
the  driver.  But  this  change  did  not  rob  the  old  thorough- 
fare of  its  interest  and  power  to  fascinate  and  charm,  for 
the  people  soon  forgot  this  "wanton  disregard  for  our 
wishes"  and  became  reconciled  to  the  new  order  of  things. 
And  how  the  old  street  has  grown  in  beauty  and  grandeur 
within  the  last  twenty  years !  Now  it's  "The  Great  White 
Way"  of  modern  structures  of  marble  and  granite.  Have 
you  ever  walked  the  streets  of  New  York  without  a  home? 
A   stroll   along  Broadway    drives    away    melancholy    and 

13 


makes  the  homeless  and  despised  forgetful  of  his  misery; 
for  there  is  an  inexplicable  feeling  of  warmth  in  the  glow 
of  its  myriads  of  electric  lights,  and  the  winter  snow  that 
falls  on  Broadway  seems  to  hit  the  cheeks  with  apologetic 
tenderness. 

The  homeless  outcast  from  beneath  the  chilly  glare  of 
the  lights  of  Fifth  Avenue,  where  he  is  jostled  aside  by  the 
footmen  and  run  down  by  the  luxuriant  coaches  of  haughty 
millionaires  is  often  saved  from  a  suicide's  grave  by  the 
warmth  and  cheer  dispensed  by  the  lights  of  Broadway. 
Broadway,  where  sympathies  are  blended  and  everybody  is 
kin;  where  the  recluse  crawls  out  of  his  shell;  where  the 
miser  loosens  his  purse  strings  and  for  the  time  being  is  a 
jolly  good  fellow.  Broadway  is  the  lane  of  comedy,  comedy 
that  flows  in  such  immense  volume  that  tragedy  the  most  re- 
volting, can  only  cause  a  momentary  ebb.  It  is  said  by  some 
people  that  in  handsomely  gowned  and  pretty  colored  Amer- 
ican girls,  Chicago  outclasses  New  York.  But  I  wonder  if 
any  of  these  alleged  authorities  ever  stood  for  an  hour  or 
more  on  upper  Broadway  at  the  junction  of  Sixth  Avenue 
and  Thirty-third  Street,  or  lined  up  with  the  "chappies"  in 
front  of  St.  Mark's  at  the  close  of  an  afternoon  Sunday 
lyceum  service  to  watch  the  parade  of  beauty.  I  am  entitled 
to  a  vote  on  this  question.  I  have  strolled  the  fashionable 
thoroughfares  of  nearly  all  the  large  American  cities.  But 
for  wealth  of  beauty,  and  of  raiment,  for  the  bounti fulness 
of  pleasure  and  revelry  of  mirth  and  good  cheer,  give  me 
dear  old  Broadway,  fraught  with  sweet,  bitter  memories. 


14 


DR.  JACOBS  AND  HIS  CHOIR 


To  the  Editor  of  "The  Standard  Union' 


In  the  days  of  slavery  few  plantations  in  the  South  were 
without  their  Negro  spiritual  advisers,  men  devout,  chosen 
from  among  their  fellow  bondsmen,  who  were  permitted  to 
go  freely  from  plantation  to  plantation  to  pray  and  exhort 
among  their  brethren.  In  many  communities  in  North 
Carolina  master  and  slave  worshipped  in  the  same  church, 
the  whites  monopolizing  the  mornings  and  evenings  of  the 
First  Day,  while  in  the  afternoons  the  Negro  from  the  same 
pulpit  preached  to  his  own  people.  Very  often  during  these 
services  the  master  sat  in  the  audience  an  attentive  and 
reverent  worshiper;  for  there  was  a  pathos  in  the  mourn- 
ful music  of  the  slave,  an  emotion  that  permeated  his  preach- 
ing and  his  prayers  that  strangely  fascinated  the  dominant 
race  in  those  days.  It  must  have  been  a  strange  and  won- 
derful sight  to  the  white  man  to  witness  the  fervency  with 
which  the  slave  worshiped  the  God  who  had  so  permitted  it 
that  he  owned  not  himself ;  to  see  shackel  hands  raised  in 
exaltation,  and  tears  of  joy  unspeakable  streaming  down 
cheeks  furrowed  and  scarred  by  hardship.  The  intense  en- 
joyment of  these  brief  intervals  of  freedom  to  worship  God 
on  the  part  of  his  chattels  doubtless  had  the  effect  of  easing 
the  conscience  of  the  oppressor  and  justified  the  institution. 
The  master  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  worship  of  the  slave, 
especially  his  singing.  He  often  lingered  about  the  church 
door  to  catch  the  last  strains  of  the  plaintive  melody  that 
gushed  from  bleeding  hearts.  The  song  of  the  captive 
mourning  for  his  lover,  ruthlessly  sold  away  to  some  dis- 
tant land,  was  prompted  by  far  different  emotions  than  the 
shouts  from  "corn  shuckings,"  but  the  effect  was  the  same 
upon  the  ear  of  the  calloused  oppressor  whose  descendants 

15 


now  regard  the  slave  regime  as  a  benefaction.  This  fixed 
time  for  the  worship  of  the  slave  in  North  Carolina  did  not 
debar  him  from  a  place  in  galleries  when  his  master  wor- 
shiped. The  eloquence  that  floated  out  from  the  lips  of 
the  cultured  and  refined  ministry  and  the  music  of  trained 
voices  in  the  choir  loft  were  listened  to  with  great  profit 
by  the  captive,  destined  some  day  not  only  to  own  himself 
but  his  church  and  his  pew,  for  at  the  close  of  the  war  the 
number  of  negroes  in  the  South  who  knew  more  than  the 
mere  rudiments  of  music  was  surprising.  And  as  there  was 
a  strong  desire  on  the  part  of  the  race  to  discard  plantation 
melodies,  reminders  of  cruel  bondage,  and  learn  classical 
music,  he  who  could  teach  vocal  music  had  an  inviting  field 
in  which  to  work.  The  town  of  New  Berne,  N.  C,  for 
many  years  after  the  war  was  noted  for  the  great  love  for 
music  among  its  colored  people,  the  major  portion  of  the 
Sunday  service  in  every  church  and  schoolhouse  being  de- 
voted to  the  teaching  of  vocal  music.  And  now  there  are 
but  few  colored  people  hailing  from  that  section  of  the  old 
North  State  that  cannot  both  read  and  sing  music. 

But  as  in  most  colored  churches,  collections  are  lifted  to 
the  accompaniment  of  vocal  music  to  the  overtaxing  of 
choirs,  the  plantation  song  has  not  entirely  lost  its  popularity, 
and  the  composer  of  rude  religious  ballads  is  still  to  be 
reckoned  among  the  indispensible  adjuncts  in  the  spreading 
of  the  Gospel.  In  some  districts  among  the  African  Metho- 
dist people  the  minister  who  can  sing  well,  as  well  as 
preach  well,  has  a  more  satisfactory  financial  report  to  pre- 
sent at  the  annual  conference  than  he  who  has  but  the  one 
talent.  The  most  popular  and  successful  composer  of  sacred 
ballads  I  recall  was  one,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hunter,  of  the  Zion 
Methodist  connection,  whose  "Go  Down,  Moses,"  "Oh, 
Daniel,"  etc.,  electrified  the  worshipers  of  old  "Christian 
Chapel,"  in  Wilmington,  North  Carolina,  so  many  years  ago. 
When  Dr.  Hunter  came  to  town  and  stood  in  the  pulpit  of 
the  old  chapel,  the  choir  was  for  the  time  being  forgotten  by 
the  audience  in  their  eagerness  to  catch  the  melody  and  fol- 
low in  the  strain  of  new  song  sure  to  issue  from  the  mouth 
of  this  great  singer.  But  in  our  more  modern  pulpits, 
especially  in  the  North,  taste  for  the  classic  and  refined  in 

16 


music  is  on  the  ascendancy.  And  we  can  safely  consider 
Dr.  F.  M.  Jacobs,  of  the  Zion  Methodist  Church,  in  Bridge 
Street,  as  among  the  foremost  exponents  of  this  gratifying 
regime.  Although  Dr.  Jacobs  is  not  without  a  love  for  the 
old  slave  melodies,  which  he  can  sing  with  the  zest  of  the 
most  ardent  Methodist,  he  is  more  in  love  with  the  classic 
and  refined,  and  is  as  much  at  home  in  the  rendition  of 
'Inflammatus,"  by  Rossini,  as  the  simplest  Negro  melody. 
Paul  Fulton,  the  new  choirmaster  of  the  Zion  Memorial 
Church  choir,  born  in  Cumberland  County,  N.  C,  and  edu- 
cated in  the  public  schools  of  Wilmington,  received  his 
musical  training  under  Mrs.  Janet  Gay  Dodge,  one  of  the 
most  proficient,  thorough  and  painstaking  teachers  of  the 
art  that  ever  went  South  from  New  England.  For  a  num- 
ber of  years  Mr.  Fulton  trained  and  was  at  the  head  of  one 
of  the  best  organizations  of  male  voices  in  the  State  of 
North  Carolina.  But  since  he  has  lived  North  he  has  taken 
up  but  little  time  with  the  music  world.  The  disinclination 
of  Negro  churches  to  pay  singers  gives  to  choristers  an 
abundant  amount  of  care  and  worry  in  the  training  of 
volunteers  who  are  mostly  amateurs.  This  state  of  things 
has  worked  to  the  detriment  of  choristers  who  are  often 
over  taxed  and  worn  out  leading  choruses,  prompted  in 
many  instances  by  the  ambition  to  be  the  stars.  Mr.  Ful- 
ton's method  is  to  train  each  individual  singer  to  be  self 
dependent,  and  thereby  have  a  choir  that  will  not  be  com- 
pelled to  lean  upon  its  chorister.  Those  who  shall  visit  Zion 
Memorial  Church  during  the  coming  season  will  have  the 
pleasure  of  enjoying  some  novel  and  entertaining  musical 
programmes. 


17 


THE  ADDRESS  OF  JOHN  TEMPLE  GRAVES 


Of  Atlanta,  Georgia,  as  Published  in  the  Brooklyn  Daily 

Eagle. 


Chicago,  September  3d. 

The  University  of  Chicago  held  its  forty-eighth  con- 
vention and  the  principal  speaker  from  abroad  was  John 
Temple  Graves,  of  Atlanta.  He  spoke  on  "The  Problem 
of  the  Races,"  and  his  long  address  will  probably  cause  a 
furor  throughout  the  country.  Mr.  Graves  made  a  great 
reputation  for  oratory  at  Chautauqua  at  the  lynching  con- 
ference, but  his  address  to-day  was  of  a  different  nature. 
He  gave  a  complete  exposition  of  the  race  problem  as  the 
South  sees  it;  its  causes,  effect,  and  his  theory  of  its  solu- 
tion. Mr.  Graves'  main  points  were  that  the  only  solution 
possible  is  the  complete  separation  of  the  races ;  that  the 
Negroes  ought  to  have  free  transportation  to  the  Philip- 
pines; that  the  Islands  should  be  turned  over  to  them  for 
their  own  absolute  control  as  a  state ;  that  no  whites  should 
vote  there  and  no  negroes  should  vote  here ;  that  the  South 
could  get  along  without  them,  because  the  last  census  shows 
the  Negroes  have  not  had  a  majority  share  in  the  raising  of 
crops  recently. 

Mr.  Graves  said  in  part :  "Fortunate  am  I,  and  happy  in 
that  I  bring  the  convictions  of  this  hour  to  a  platform  so 
free  and  to  an  atmosphere  so  impartial.  Questions  of  ab- 
stract policy — problems  of  humanity — bearing  a  hint  of 
section  or  a  complication  of  party  are  not  for  the  ears  of 
faction  or  for  the  passing  of  politics.  Upon  the  fierce  and 
heated  bosom  of  established  prejudice  the  cold  stream  of 
reason  falls  too  frequently  to  steam  and  hissing,  and  men 
who  have  convictions  that  are  rather  definite  than  popular 

18 


may  thank  God  for  the  calmer  air  of  universities  and  for 
the  clear  and  unbiased  minds  of  students  seeking  truth." 

Then  Mr.  Graves  went  on  to  state  his  problem — the  condi- 
tions in  the  last  forty  years  that  brought  the  race  matter  to 
the  fore.  The  freeing  of  the  slaves  and  making  them  the 
equal  of  their  former  masters  made  two  opposite,  unequal, 
and  antagonistic  races  stand  side  by  side.  He  said  the 
equation  was  this:  "There  they  are — master  and  slave — 
civilized  and  half-civilized,  strong  and  weak,  conquoring 
and  servile,  twentieth  century  and  twelfth  century — thirteen 
hundred  years  apart — set  by  a  strange  and  incomprehensible 
edict  of  statesmanship  or  of  passion  set  by  the  Constitution 
and  the  law,  the  weakest  race  on  earth  and  the  strongest 
race  on  earth,  side  by  side,  on  equal  terms  to  bear  an  equal 
part  in  the  conduct  and  responsibility  of  the  greatest  gov- 
ernment the  world  ever  saw.  It  was  an  experiment  without 
a  precedent  in  history  and  without  a  promise  in  the  annals 
of  man.  The  experiment  has  had  thirty-eight  years  of  trial, 
backed  by  the  power  of  the  Federal  Government  and  by  the 
sympathy  of  the  world.  It  has  failed.  From  the  beginning 
to  the  hour  that  holds  us,  it  has  failed. 

"In  a  land  of  light  and  liberty,  in  an  age  of  enlightenment 
and  law,  the  women  of  the  South  are  prisoners  to  danger 
and  to  fear.  While  your  women  may  walk  from  suburb 
to  suburb  and  from  township  to  township  without  an  escort 
and  without  alarm,  there  is  not  a  woman  of  the  South — 
wife  or  daughter — who  would  be  permitted,  or  who  would 
dare,  to  walk  at  twilight  unguarded  through  the  residence 
streets  of  a  populous  town  or  to  ride  the  outside  highways 
at  midday." 


A  REPLY  TO  THE  HON.  JOHN  TEMPLE  GRAVES 

[CHICAGO   SPEECH] 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

I  was  quite  a  small  boy  when,  in  1874,  three  men  entered 
the  school  of  which  I  was  a  pupil  and  announced  the  death 
of  Charles  Sumner,  a  name  which  but  few  of  us  had  ever 
heard.  "Charles  Sumner  is  dead!"  was  the  first  sentence 
uttered  by  the  first  speaker,  who  went  on  to  tell  us  how 

19 


deeply  the  Nation  was  affected  by  the  death  of  this  good 
man.  "Who  was  Charles  Sumner,  and  what  of  him?"  was 
the  query  that  went  from  pupil  to  pupil,  for  the  stranger  in 
his  eulogy  did  not  satisfactorily  enlighten  us  on  that  point. 
The  fact  that  we  had  not  heard  of  him  then  makes  his 
name  dearer  to  me  now  as  I  recall  that  eventful  incident, 
for  Charles  Sumner  shall  be  numbered  with  the  elect  and 
precious  who  shall  inquire  of  the  King  in  that  day:  "Lord, 
when  saw  we  thee  a  hungered  and  fed  thee?  or  thirsty  and 
gave  thee  drink?  When  saw  we  thee  a  stranger  and  took 
thee  in?  or  naked  and  clothed  thee?"  And  the  King  shall 
answer  and  say  unto  them,  "  'Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you, 
in  as  much  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these 
my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me.'  "  This  man  had 
given  his  best  days,  given  his  best  energies  contending  for 
the  rights  of  a  race  too  ignorant  and  obscure  to  even  realize 
that  such  efforts  were  being  put  forth  in  their  behalf,  or 
that  such  a  man  as  Charles  Sumner  existed.  It  is  upon 
such  characters  that  a  strong  nation  rests,  for  it  takes 
such  to  build  a  strong  nation  and  uphold  it;  men  who  did 
right  because  it  was  right ;  men  who  were  willing  to  do  and 
dare  for  the  oppressed  from  whom  there  could  come  no 
earthly  reward.  Such  characters  grow  in  magnitude  as 
the  years  recede,  and  men  come  to  understand  the  truths 
they  championed.  Many  of  those  who  listened  to  the  speech 
delivered  by  John  Temple  Graves  at  the  Chicago  University 
a  few  days  ago,  have  doubtless  visited  Lincoln  Park  in  that 
city,  to  gaze  upon  the  rugged  features  of  that  great  leader 
of  men  whose  bronze  statue  stands  there  looking  sadly 
down  upon  the  throngs  that  pass  it.  Their  minds  must 
move  back  to  his  early  career  in  Illinois,  and  his  many  com- 
bats with  Stephen  A.  Douglass,  Douglass  the  invincible, 
who  could  lie  like  truth,  to  whom  Lincoln  was  no  match  as 
an  orator.  Yet  the  name  of  Lincoln,  who  believed  in  right- 
eousness and  simple  truth,  will  live  in  the  hearts  of  the 
American  people  when  that  of  Douglass  is  forgotten.  Such 
men  as  Lincoln  never  boasted  of  a  "white  man's  country;" 
but  the  burden  of  their  prayers  was  that  "nation  of  the 
people,  for  the  people  and  by  the  people  might  not  perish 
from  the  land."    When  the  nations  of  the  old  world  think 

20 


of  the  greatness  and  grand  achievements  of  this  Republic, 
such  characters  as  Lincoln,  Phillips,  Sumner,  Whittier, 
Beecher,  Garrison  stand  out  as  the  bulwarks  upon  which  it 
rests,  and  not  of  those  who  have  contributed  the  least,  and 
yet  are  doing  the  most  boasting.  What  did  the  people  of 
Chicago  assemble  for  to  hear,  a  rational  being,  a  man 
clothed  in  his  right  mind  ?  Or  was  it  not  rather  to  listen  to 
a  man  who  had  lain  down  in  Georgia  and  dreamed  a  dream, 
and  before  fully  awakened  from  the  stupor  of  a  long  sleep, 
stalked  forth  to  relate  it?  Suppose  there  was  a  possi- 
bility of  carrying  Mr.  Graves'  colonizing  scheme  into  execu- 
tion, how  long  would  it  be  before  there  would  be  a  John 
Temple  Graves  in  the  Philippines,  whining  for  the  separa- 
tion of  races  and  saying,  "This  is  a  white  man's  country." 
The  white  man  is  there  now,  grabbing  land,  speculating, 
stirring  up  race  hatred  and  mongrelizing  an  already  mon- 
grel people.  Is  not  Governor  Taft  unpopular  over  there 
because  he  desired  to  give  the  Filipino  a  say-so  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  his  own  country?  Where  is  there  a  domain 
from  the  dense  interior  of  darkest  Africa  to  the  Land  of  the 
Midnight  Sun  that  Mr.  Graves'  race  is  not  found,  subju- 
gating, killing  and  tyranizing?  The  Negro  cannot  walk 
on  the  sidewalks  in  the  Transvaal.  That's  a  white  man's 
country,  too.  That  "all  conquoring  race"  Mr.  Graves  boasts 
of  is  everywhere,  seeking  to  turn  the  world  into  a  trust  and 
kick  all  the  other  races  off  of  it.  "Civilizing  and  Christian- 
izing," you  say?  It  is  no  satisfaction  to  me  to  behold  in  the 
jungles  of  Patigonia  the  Christian(?)  white  man's  cottage 
where  the  hut  of  the  savage  once  stood  when  I  reflect  upon 
the  fact  that  to  put  that  cottage  there  it  cost  the  lives  of 
perhaps  a  thousand  human  beings,  fashioned  by  the  hand  of 
God  to  live  on  this  earth  and  enjoy  unmolested  a  persuit 
of  happiness.  What  manner  of  people  are  those  to  whom 
the  sweetest  music  is  the  groans  and  wails  of  the  suffering, 
and  to  whose  feet  the  softest  cushion  is  the  neck  of  the 
down-trodden?  Where  shall  rest  be  found?  The  view  of 
the  distinguished  gentleman  from  Georgia  is  that  it's  to  be 
found  neither  in  Heaven  nor  Hell  for  any  race  but  the 
white  race.  His  conception  of  such  things  is  so  narrow  and 
contracted  that  his  people  must  have  the  right  of  way  be- 

21 


cause  God  did  not  call  the  worlds  into  existence  without 
consulting  them,  neither  can  God  run  the  universe  without 
them.  In  Paradise  the  white  man  is  to  occupy  all  the  front 
seats  by  the  Jasper  Sea,  and  the  darker  races  must  stand 
behind  and  fan  him.  And  if  he  should  be  so  unfortunate 
as  to  go  to  Hell  he  will  seek  a  nigger  or  a  Chinaman  to 
hold  between  him  and  the  fire.  It's  passing  strange  that 
Mr.  Graves  allowed  the  Almighty  to  create  all  these  weaker 
races  for  his  people  to  look  after  and  keep  in  their  places. 
It  would  have  saved  the  white  man  from  the  commission  of 
many  a  black  sin  had  God  created  the  whole  world  solely 
for  him  to  bustle  in. 

"In  a  land  of  light  and  liberty  the  women  of  the  South 
are  prisoners  to  fear,"  etc.  Now  this  assertion,  when  read, 
will  be  more  startling  to  the  women  of  Atlanta  than  to 
Mr.  Graves'  Chicago  audience.  The  white  woman  may 
walk  from  "suburb  to  suburb"  with  far  more  safety  in 
Atlanta  than  in  Chicago.  To  say  that  the  Southern  white 
woman  is  unsafe  because  of  the  presence  of  the  Negro  is  a 
damaging  misstatement.  The  Southern  lady  of  wealth  is 
continually  surrounded  by  her  trusted  colored  servants, 
male  and  female,  and  her  environments  have  always  been 
such  as  to  render  her  as  fearless  of  the  Negro  as  a  pet  cat. 
Until  they  were  past  the  age  of  twenty,  the  only  escort  to 
teas  and  to  parties  and  such  like  the  daughters  of  one  of 
the  leading  merchants  of  my  native  town  had  was  their 
Negro  butler.  No  one  turned  to  gaze  after  the  wife  of 
another  prominent  citizen  of  that  town  who  thought  noth- 
ing of  going  through  the  streets  leaning  upon  the  arm  of 
her  Negro  butler.  Mr.  Graves,  in  order  to  strengthen  his 
colonization  theory,  would  malign  the  women  of  his  race. 

Brooklyn,  Sept.  19th,  1903. 


22 


MEMORIAL  DAY  IN  THE  SOUTH 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle": 

As  Decoration  Day  draws  nigh,  recollections  of  the  strug- 
gle of  1861,  which  so  tried  the  two  sections  of  our  coun- 
try, become  more  vivid,  and  the  many  years  that  have 
passed  since  then  seem  less  distant.  The  veteran  in  his 
faded  coat  of  blue,  his  rugged  visage  and  empty  sleeve; 
the  militiaman  in  brilliant  uniform;  citizens  in  holiday 
attire,  booming  cannon  and  martial  music,  give  to  that  par- 
ticular day  a  significance  which  apparently  no  other  day 
possesses.  While  in  the  North  we  celebrate  in  gala  attire 
and  bands  and  drum  corps  blare  out  patriotic  airs,  in  the 
South  the  observance  is  in  striking  contrast ;  all  is  funereal, 
solemn  and  sedate.  With  arms  reversed,  the  veteran,  with 
slow  and  measured  tread  follows  behind  muffled  drums  and 
bands  play  dirges,  while  choirs  sing  most  solemn  and  touch- 
ing music.  While  the  30th  of  May  is  universally  observed 
for  the  decoration  of  the  graves  of  Union  dead,  the  Daugh- 
ters of  the  Confederacy  and  other  such  organizations  in  the 
South,  although  such  a  day  is  observed  in  every  Southern 
State,  do  not  move  in  concert.  In  the  far  Southern  States, 
where  spring  puts  on  her  richest  attire  in  early  April,  Con- 
federate graves  are  decorated  in  that  month,  while  in  States 
further  North,  a  day  in  May  is  observed.  In  North  Caro- 
lina it  is  the  10th  of  May;  in  Virginia,  it's  the  30th.  This 
is  an  observance  of  the  most  intense  interest  to  lovers  of 
the  "Lost  Cause."  An  air  of  profound  sadness  and  thought- 
fulness  pervades  the  very  atmosphere,  and  the  gray  veteran 
again  salutes  the  "Stars  and  Bars"  which  hang  in  profusion 
about  the  speakers'  stand  and  wave  above  the  Confederate 
dead.  Father  Ryan's  famous  poem,  "The  Conquored  Ban- 
ner," is  recited  with  a  pathos  that  is  touching.  Old  wounds 
bleed  a-fresh  as  impassioned  orators  tell  of  the  causes  that 
led  up  to  the  struggle;  the  justness  of  the  Southern  side  and 
the  bravery  of  the  Southern  soldier.  Pickett's  gallant 
charge  at  Gettysburg  is  rehearsed  with  fervor;  what  might 
have  been  gained  to  the  South  on  that  gory  field  had  Lee 

23 


listened  to  the  advice  of  Longstreet  is  also  regretfully  told, 
together  with  the  story  of  the  foolhardiness  of  Sidney 
Johnston  at  Shiloh,  which  lost  the  West  to  the  Confederacy. 
But  on  the  30th  of  May,  when  Union  soldiers'  graves  are 
decorated,  a  different  program  is  rendered.  There,  over 
those  grass-covered  mounds,  other  orators  —  nowadays 
mostly  colored  men  —  tell  of  the  victories  of  the  "Silent 
Man"  at  Donaldson,  at  Shiloh,  at  Vicksburg,  at  Chat- 
tanooga, at  Petersburg  and  Richmond,  and  of  of  Sherman's 
famous  March  to  the  Sea.  The  decoration  of  these  graves 
is,  and  has  ever  been,  done  almost  solely  by  Afro-American 
women.  And  when  we  consider  the  fact  that  nearly  all  of 
the  men  who  fell  in  that  awful  struggle  sleep  South  of 
Mason's  and  Dixon's  line,  we  can  appreciate  the  importance 
of  the  part  the  Afro- American  woman  plays  in  this  work 
of  love.  At  Richmond,  Culpepper,  Wilmington,  Salisbury, 
Salisbury,  S.  C,  Nashville,  Chattanooga,  Memphis  and 
other  places  beneath  acres  upon  acres  of  grass-covered 
mounds. 

"Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead" — Union  dead.  The 
Government  provides  only  for  the  placing  of  a  small  Amer- 
ican flag  on  that  day  upon  each  headstone,  no  more.  But 
it  is  the  loving  hand  of  black  woman  and  child  that  places 
the  rose,  the  jasmine,  the  lilac  and  forget-me-not  there,  with 
wreathes  of  cedar  and  of  pine ;  so  that  wafted  upon  the 
breeze  which  comes  upward  from  that  hallowed  ground  is 
the  breath  of  sweet  flowers.  What  shall  be  done  for  this 
obscure  Schunamite  who,  for  so  many  years,  has  faithfully 
performed  this  work  of  love?  "Shall  we  mention  her  to 
the  King?  or  shall  we  ship  her  to  the  Philippines?  The 
Grand  Army  veteran  will  doubtless  say  "No,"  when  he 
looks  backward  and  thinks  of  Andersonville,  Libbey,  Flor- 
ence and  Danville,  and  of  the  fate  that  might  have  been  his 
had  it  not  been  for  the  devotion  of  some  colored  woman  or 
boy  who  hid  him  in  kitchen  loft  or  barn  or  hay  stack,  from 
the  heartless  rebel,  and  under  cover  of  darkness,  piloted  him 
safely  into  Union  lines. 

"Oh  Lord  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget." 
To  the  Afro-American  woman  of  the  South  on  that  day 

24 


will  come  vivid  recollections  of  the  inexplicable  gloom  that 
pervaded  the  land  everywhere  when  John  Brown  went  to 
the  scaffold,  or  the  excitement  attending  the  bombardment 
of  Fort  Sumpter,  the  hastening  northward  of  the  soldier 
in  gray,  of  the  constant  scudding  off  of  husband,  brother  or 
father  to  break  through  rebel  lines  to  fight  on  "the  Lord's 
side."  She  will  hear  again  the  sad  wail  of  the  massacred  at 
Fort  Pillow,  see  those  black  forms  dashing  toward  the 
parapets  of  Fort  Wagner  and  hear  again  the  thunderings 
of  the  awful  crater  at  Petersburg.  With  this  must  come 
the  consoling  thought  that  she  has  done  what  she  could. 
For  among  those  sleeping  heroes  her  husband,  her  brother, 
her  father  is  lying,  having  given  up  their  lives  that  "a 
nation  of  the  people,  for  the  people,  and  by  the  people, 
might  not  perish  from  the  land." 


HANNAH  ELIAS 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

It  is  very  unfortunate  that  such  a  valuable  citizen  as 
Andrew  H.  Green  should  be  the  target  for  a  crazed  Negro's 
revolver,  while  the  real  sinner  escaped  to  bring  him  into 
nauseating  prominence  at  this  late  date.  How  soothing  it 
would  have  been  to  Mr.  Green's  friends,  whose  confidence 
in  his  integrity,  no  doubt,  was  somewhat  shaken  by  the  man- 
ner of  his  taking  off,  had  this  man  stood  over  his  coffin  and 
told  what  he  tells  now.  While  I  am  not  in  sympathy  with 
Mrs.  Elias'  manner  of  living,  I  believe  that  others  will 
agree  with  me  that  for  farsightedness,  sagacity  and  busi- 
ness tact,  Hannah  Elias  is  a  twentieth  century  wonder. 
Nine-tenths  of  those  who  are  pounding  her  would,  no 
doubt,  like  to  be  as  fortunate.  Many  attractive  women  are 
living  in  luxury  at  the  expense  of  such  old  sinners  as  Piatt. 
His  bid  for  sympathy  on  the  ground  that  he  did  not  know 
that  the  woman  was  a  Negress,  is  rendered  ridiculous  by 

25 


his  own  statement  concerning  the  visit  of  his  friends  from 
the  West  who,  after  being  shown  the  white  joints  of  the 
Tenderloin,  were  not  satisfied  until  they  had  "done  the  coon 
joints."  A  certain  class  of  men  are  not  satisfied  in  visit- 
ing any  town  North,  South,  East  or  West,  unless  they  have 
paid  their  respects  to  the  "coon  joints."  In  such  a  resort, 
Mr.  Piatt  met  Mrs.  Elias.  He  confesses  that  to  his  sor- 
row he  lost  sight  of  her,  and  found  her  again  through  an 
advertisement  of  massage  treatment  for  rheumatism,  by 
which  treatment  he  was  cured.  Those  of  the  medical  pro- 
fession will  bear  me  out  in  the  assertion  that  physicians 
who  command  the  largest  fees  are  specialists.  Mr.  Piatt, 
who  had  rheumatism — a  very  unpleasant,  yet  aggrivating 
malady — had  doubtless  before  meeting  Mrs.  Elias,  spent 
large  sums  of  money  to  effect  a  cure  and  failed.  Mrs. 
Elias  cured  him !  Such  a  tormenting  disease  cured !  Should 
it  be  wondered  at  that  a  rich  old  man  whose  life  had  been 
thus  prolonged,  paid  handsomely  for  it,  and  that  he  re- 
turned frequently  for  treatment  lest  the  malady  return?  Is 
not  such  a  man  an  ingrate  who  would  seek  to  beat  a  poor 
woman  out  of  the  paltry  sum  of  $685,000,  which  she  had 
earned  by  performing  such  a  miraculous  cure?  Was  the 
old  gentleman  in  his  right  mind  when  he  paid  these  large 
fees  and  gave  such  handsome  presents  ?  Yes.  Yes.  Then, 
has  he  been  robbed  ?  No !  Mr.  Piatt  is  as  much  against 
social  equality  as  Mr.  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  and  is  doubt- 
less as  opposed  to  his  daughter  sitting  in  close  proximity  to 
a  Negro  woman  in  a  public  conveyance.  But  I  don't  think 
he  agrees  with  the  Honorable  John  Temple  Graves,  that  the 
races  should  be  separated.  Suppose  we  prove  that  this 
woman  got  her  wealth  dishonestly;  is  this  an  excuse  for  a 
howling  mob  about  her  door  ?  There  are  men  living  in  that 
community  worth  individually  from  eighty  to  a  hundred 
millions,  and  men  possessing  such  wealth  have  dishonestly 
gotten  other  people's  money.  Is  there  anybody  up  there 
seeking  to  serve  papers  on  them  ?  Are  there  howling  mobs 
standing  night  and  day  about  their  premises?  For  Chris- 
tian shame!  Now  Mrs.  Elias,  who  is  a  wealthy  taxpayer, 
is  entitled  to  police  protection,  and  should  have  it. 
Brooklyn,  June  7th,  1904. 

26 


WORK  OF  MISSIONARIES 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  three  installments  of 
Br.  Hamlin  Abbott's  contributions  to  the  Outlook  on  the 
Negro  problem.  Mr.  Abbott  is,  indeed,  a  logical,  instructive 
and  entertaining  writer,  original  in  many  respects  in  his  way 
of  putting  things,  and  I  believe  he  is  earnestly  trying  to  de- 
vise some  means  of  settling  a  perplexing  question.  But  he 
who  reads  between  the  lines  may  see  that  Mr.  Abbott  does 
not  possess  sufficient  virtue  to  lift  him  out  of  the  beaten  path 
and  contemplate  his  fellow  citizen  from  human  view  point, 
rather  than  as  a  problem  that  a  white  man  must  settle.  The 
disposition  to  kick  the  under  dog  is  as  old  as  the  human 
race.  I  often  think  of  Charles  Dickens'  story  of  that 
wretched  boy,  Oliver  Twist,  chased  by  a  wild  mob  through 
the  streets  of  London,  headed  by  the  real  thief,  to  be 
"stopped  at  last,"  struck  down  by  a  coward  and  dragged 
off  to  prison  with  no  one  near  to  pity  or  protest.  I  see  a 
lone  woman,  pursued  by  a  thousand  men  for  over  a  hun- 
dred miles  through  the  swamps  and  marshes  of  Mississippi, 
that  they  might  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  suffer  the 
most  shocking  death.  While  in  New  York,  men,  women 
and  children  to  the  number  of  ten  thousand  seek  to  tear,  as 
it  were,  to  pieces  another,  because  she  had  committed  the 
crime  of  living  in  luxury.  This  is  the  problem,  woefully 
perplexing.  I  trust  that  Mr.  Abbott  may  see  the  wisdom  of 
dropping  the  threadbare  Negro  question  and  give  to  his 
readers  a  few  contributions  on  the  more  intensely  interest- 
ing subject,  the  poor  white,  the  indented  slave,  the  ticket 
of  leave  man,  over  whom  the  tide  of  progress  has  rolled 
for  centuries  without  making  but  little  impression ;  the 
creature  that  allowed  the  Negro  to  break  off  his  shackles 
and  outstrip  him  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  and  financial 
race,  and  actuated  by  envy,  keeps  the  South  in  turmoil.  Mr. 
Abbott  will  find  this  an  almost  exhaustless  subject.  In  the 
dismal  fastness  of  the  Gulf  States,  in  the  mountainous 
regions  of  western  North  Carolina,  east  Tennessee,  the  Vir- 
ginias and  Kentucky  can  be  found  material  for  the  turn- 
ing out  of  immense  volumes   of  matter  as  thrilling  and 

27 


interesting  as  the  adventures  of  "Dare  Devil  Dick."  For 
there,  daily,  dramas  in  real  life  are  enacted  that  need  no 
stage  settings  to  add  to  their  effectiveness  upon  the  stranger 
and  the  unitiated.  There,  ambushed  assassinations  are  of 
daily  occurrence  and  vengeance  is  the  law  of  the  land.  I 
would  advise  Mr.  Abbott  to  visit  these  sections  and  write 
something  really  interesting.  But  I  would  say  here  that  he 
who  would  assay  to  chronicle  the  doings  of  these  people 
from  the  premises  is  likely  to  be  called  from  labor  to  re- 
freshment at  any  moment.  What  a  ripe  field  for  mission- 
ary work?  But  the  missionary  will  find  the  work  of  con- 
verting this  people  more  difficult  than  changing  the  wildest 
Patagonian,  because  they  are  all  Bible-reading  heathen — 
people  who  can  repeat  chapter  after  chapter,  who  know  by 
heart  the  Ten  Commandments  and  the  Beatitudes  and 
attend  religious  services  regularly.  Yet  out  of  this  great 
Book,  so  full  of  beautiful  precepts,  they  have  extracted  this 
one  creed — "An  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth." 
There  the  preacher  and  the  deacon  are  as  quick  on  the  trig- 
ger as  the  meanest  moonshiner;  there  a  quarrel  over  a 
horse  swap  or  a  pig  has  resulted  in  feuds  that  have  never 
ceased  until  an  entire  generation  has  been  wiped  out.  Mr. 
Abbott  is  letting  pass  an  opportunity  that  an  angel  might 
covet. 

Brooklyn,  June  25th,  1904. 


SOME  COMPARISONS 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

When  Rome  was  mistress  of  the  world,  and  her  bar- 
barian captives  were  butchered  to  make  holidays,  in  the 
vast  ampitheatres  where  these  brutal  exhibitions  took  place, 
women  composed  a  large  percentage  of  the  audiences  that 
assembled  there  to  gloat  over  the  sight  of  human  blood. 
Women  were  often  butchered  there,  and  little  babes  oft 
with  prayers  upon  their  lips  ruthlessly  torn  to  pieces.  But 
we  can  safely  say  that  in  these  feasts  of  blood,  women  were 
not  executioners,  although  they  were  unmoved  by  the  cruel 

28 


taking  off  of  their  own  sex.  We  can  therefore  rest  assured 
that  what  took  place  in  a  small  town  in  the  State  of  Mis- 
sissippi a  few  days  ago  would  have  made  pagan  Rome  look 
aghast  and  called  forth  a  cry  of  indignation  that  would 
shaken  the  very  temple  of  the  Caesars.  In  that  Mississippi 
community,  before  an  assemblage  of  ten  thousand  people,  a 
child  of  tender  age  was  made  to  tie  a  rope  about  a  man's 
neck  and  lead  him  to  his  self-appointed  executioners,  who 
terrorized  the  State  by  their  wanton  disregard  for  law  and 
order.  The  killing  of  that  wretch  in  this  manner  was,  per- 
haps, the  only  way  to  pacify  that  perturbed  community,  but 
the  memory  of  that  awful  scene  must  ever  haunt  that  child, 
at  least  until  its  little  heart  and  conscience  have  become  cal- 
loused. There  is  no  question  but  that  these  people  were 
wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  over  the  awfulness  of  the 
alleged  crime ;  so  was  King  David  of  Israel  over  the  story 
told  by  the  prophet  Nathan  of  the  rich  man  who  had  cruelly 
taken  the  poor  man's  lamb  and  dressed  it  for  his  own 
guests.  "And  David's  anger  was  greatly  kindled  against 
the  man :  and  he  said  unto  Nathan  as  the  Lord  liveth  the 
man  that  has  done  this  thing  shall  surely  die.  And  he  shall 
restore  the  lamb  fourfold  because  he  did  this  thing  and 
because  he  had  no  pity.  And  Nathan  said  unto  David, 
Thou  art  the  man !"  For  the  King  had  killed  Uriah  the 
Hitite  and  had  taken  his  wife.  Who  are  these  men  shout- 
ing for  virtue  and  purity?  No  Negro  woman  of  the  South, 
no  Negro  child  of  tender  age  has  as  yet  been  enabled  to 
successfully  indict  a  man  of  the  dominant  race  who  seeks 
by  law  and  custom  to  hedge  in  one  woman  and  destroy  an- 
other. Why  can't  these  champions  consider  the  various 
definitions  of  the  term  "assault"?  The  Negro  possesses  the 
same  propensities  of  any  other  creature  of  the  human  race, 
and  in  the  South  his  environments  are  such  that  he  can- 
not with  impunity  defend  his  own  wife,  mother  or  sweet- 
heart from  insult  and  violence.  Now  imagine  this  crowd, 
intimidated  being,  running  amuck,  terrozing  communities 
and  making  women  and  children  unsafe.  These  two  ex- 
tremely different  traits  of  character  do  not  exist  in  a  man 
situated  as  the  Southern  Negro.  A  man  is  likely  to  take 
such  liberties  where  there  is  most  familiarity;  where  social 

29 


laws  are  not  so  rigidly  adhered  to,  and  the  man  who  vio- 
lates the  person  of  a  woman  in  a  community  where  mere 
suspicion  is  death,  where  to  be  within  close  proximity  to 
where  a  crime  of  any  sort  is  committed  or  attempted  is 
death,  is  irresponsible;  and  in  humane  Northern  communi- 
ties would  be  a  subject  for  expert  physicians. 


NOT  GOOD  SOCIETY 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

The  recently  published  interview  published  in  a  Manhat- 
tan newspaper  between  an  Atlanta  correspondent  and  three 
returning  Negroes  to  that  city  from  a  mob-infested  section 
of  Illinois,  may  not  be  an  unlikely  story.  It  should  not  be 
said  that  the  Negro  must  return  South  for  the  very  treat- 
ment he  leaves  it  to  obtain  elsewhere.  Yet  oddily  enough, 
this  has  been  asserted  by  three  men  who  had  tried  the  North 
and  West.  The  Southern  people  should  not,  however,  feel 
elated  over  such  intelligence,  for  in  return  for  oceans  of 
stolen  sweat,  the  South  should  accord  the  black  man  better 
treatment  than  he  even  might  expect  in  the  North  and 
West.  There  is  no  place  where  a  people  expect  to  enjoy 
every  right  of  citizenship  more  than  in  the  home  they  have 
helped  to  build  and  maintain.  The  South  is  in  the  main 
responsible  for  the  indignities  heaped  upon  the  dusky  citizen 
elsewhere,  for  in  return  for  250  years  of  unrequited  toil, 
he  has  been  sent  forth  with  a  bad  name  to  be  shunned  and 
persecuted  by  the  too  credulous  Northerner,  whose  preju- 
dice is  kept  alive  by  the  far-fetched  press  reports  that  pre- 
cede him.  When  the  Negro  has  learned  the  value  of  a 
good  name,  he  will  then  be  enabled  to  appreciate  to  what 
extent  the  Southerner  has  damned  him.  "Who  steals  my 
purse  steals  trash."  The  Negro  who  regards  people  who 
continually  malign  him  as  best  friends  is  ignorant  of  the 
value  of  a  good  name.  Negroes  differ  as  materially  as  do 
other  peoples.  We  have  (as  well  as  the  fawning  sycophant, 
satisfied  with  any  form  of  existence)  the  Fred  Douglas,  the 
Nat  Turner,  the  William  Still,  to  whom  freedom  with  a 

30 


crust  is  preferable  to  wealth  in  slavery.  Such  men  are  to- 
day pushing  out  over  the  sections  of  country  where  most 
freedom  can  be  obtained,  and  where  the  most  justice  and 
equity  abounds  in  courts  of  law,  there  is  most  freedom. 
The  arm  raised  in  its  own  defense  is  nerved  in  proportion 
to  the  confidence  of  the  individual  in  the  justness  and  im- 
partiality with  which  he  and  his  antagonist  are  to  be  dealt 
with  in  a  court  of  law,  Those  returning  fugitives  to 
Atlanta  found  this  contrast  in  the  North.  But  if  they  came 
North  looking  for  and  expecting  "social  equality"  they  de- 
served to  be  disappointed  for  their  good.  That  class  of 
whites  with  which  the  Negro  comes  socially  in  contact  in 
the  North  and  West  does  him  not  one  particle  of  good 
morally,  socially,  interlectually  nor  spiritually.  The  black 
mother  need  not  boast  that  her  children  play  with  white 
ones,  and  that  she  is  the  only  colored  resident  in  a  com- 
munity. The  offspring  of  the  beer  besotted  parents  with 
whom  negro  children  are  thrown  in  Northern  communi- 
ties no  more  advance  and  elevate  than  the  company  of 
wolves,  and  the  mother  who  thinks  that  association  with 
such  gamins  is  an  advance  in  the  social  scale  is  ignorant  and 
wanting  in  race  pride.  The  white  child  whose  association 
would  uplift,  is  as  far  removed  from  this  class  of  whites  as 
is  the  Negro  himself.  The  colored  man  who  comes  North 
feeling  that  the  opportunity  to  touch  glasses  at  bar-room 
counters  with  this  class  of  white  men,  and  to  intermarry 
with  women  of  like  calibre,  to  the  disparagement  of  his 
own,  is  a  step  higher  in  the  social  scale,  misses  the  bull's 
eye  by  a  wide  margin. 

Brooklyn,  August  8th,  1903. 


3i 


COMMENTS   ON   A   REVIEW   OF  THE   "CLANS- 
MAN" BY  THE  EAGLE 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

Fictionists  and  writers  of  weird  tales  of  carpet-bag  rule 
in  the  South  are  determined  that  the  American  people  shall 
not  forget  that  regime  and  the  part  the  Negro  played  in  it. 
The  blunder  (?)  made  by  giving  the  colored  man  the  ballot 
is  to  be  the  Nation's  undying  worm  and  unquenched  fire. 
The  Eagle's  review  of  Thomas  Dixon's  new  novel,  "The 
Clansman,"  shows  that  it  is  a  stronger  appeal  to  race  hate 
and  rancor  than  "The  Leopard's  Spots,"  by  the  same  author. 
What  of  the  Negro  and  the  reconstruction  period?  Why 
should  much  ado  be  made  over  his  part  in  that  regime? 
Honest  students  of  history  know  perfectly  well  that  under 
the  then  existing  circumstances  there  was  no  other  course 
to  pursue  than  to  give  the  Negro  the  franchise ;  it  was  his 
certificate  of  manhood,  his  only  safeguard  against  imme- 
diate re-enslavement.  Every  student  of  history  knows  also 
that  the  reconstruction  period  was, the  natural  and  inevitable 
result  of  war  like  the  War  of  the  Rebellion.  Why  not  go 
further  back  and  rake  those  over  whose  bickerings  brought 
the  war  on?  The  Filipino  is  not  charged  with  rebellion 
against  this  country,  yet  there  is  a  reconstruction  period 
going  on  in  the  Philippine  Islands.  Some  day  a  Filipino 
Thomas  Dixon,  Thomas  Nelson  Page  or  John  Temple 
Graves  will  write  a  story  of  that  period  frought  with  weird 
and  fantastic  tales  of  murder,  intimidation,  usurpation,  try- 
anny,  subjugation,  land-grabbing,  stealing  and  mongreliz- 
ing.  But  I  guess  the  book  will  not  be  as  fascinating  to 
American  readers  as  "The  Clansman."  Although  Mr. 
Dixon's  story  begins  at  Washington,  the  principal  scene  of 
action  is  South  Carolina,  and  the  writer  could  not  have 
chosen  a  more  fitting  scene  for  a  drama  of  this  kind.  South 
Carolina  is  responsible  for  the  reconstruction  period,  for 
that  State  led  off  in  the  rebellion  which  necessitated  such  a 
regime.     On  the  day  that  the  Federal  garrison  evacuated 

32 


Fort  Sumpter,  a  little  man  in  a  speech  to  the  people  of 
Charleston,  said,  "This  little  State  has  humbled  the  entire 
Nation  to-day,"  and  pointing  to  the  flag  which  floated  over 
his  head,  he  continued,  "and  this  little  flag  now  flaunting 
the  breeze  over  us  will  in  three  months'  time  float  over  the 
Capitol  at  Washington!"  Vain  boast!  If  that  man  could 
have  foreseen  what  took  place  during  the  four  years  fol- 
lowing this  incident,  he  would  doubtless  have  been  willing  to 
crawl  to  Washington  to  apologize  to  an  insulted  Nation. 
In  less  than  three  years  half  starved  and  wornout  rebel  sol- 
diers were  cursing  South  Carolina  for  having  started  the 
disastrous  and  foolhardy  fight.  But  we  Northern  sympa- 
thisers are  inclined  to  say  the  South  was  actuated  by  the 
honest  convictions  that  it  was  right.  Why  not  concede  the 
same  to  the  reconstructionist?  Was  he  not  nearer  right 
than  the  man-stealer? 

Brooklyn,  January  30th,  1905. 


MR.  THOMAS  DIXON,  JR.,  THE  ALIENIST 

\_The  Voice  of  the  Negro,  Atlanta,  Ga.] 

The  most  interesting  and  fascinating  report  of  murder 
trials  nowadays  is  that  of  the  alienist  who  is  generally  the 
prosecuting  attorney's  most  valuable  adjunct  when  circum- 
stantial evidence  is  the  main  channel  by  which  conviction 
is  hoped  to  be  secured.  While  the  average  newspaper  re- 
porter follows  closely  the  proceedings  of  a  trial,  notes  the 
evidence  of  the  witnesses,  the  quarrels  of  lawyers  in  their 
efforts  to  convict  or  acquit,  the  alienist  sits  by  and  attempts 
to  open  up  to  the  world's  gaze  the  soul  of  the  accused. 
Every  lineament  of  the  features  comes  under  the  scrutiniz- 
ing gaze  of  the  alienist;  the  eyes,  the  forehead,  the  mouth, 
the  chin,  the  ears,  the  hands — all  of  these  members  are 
closely  studied  by  this  wonderful  reader  of  character  and 
generally  arrayed  on  the  side  of  conviction.  For  the  alien- 
ist will  show  that  these  carefully  studied  lineaments  evi- 
dence weakness — the  murder  mania,  that  the  crime  for 
which  the  prisoner  stands  charged  was  inevitable.  But 
what  a  saving  it  would  be  to  the  State  and  to  society  if  such 

33 


devils  could  be  singled  out  and  incarcerated  before  they  do 
incalculable  harm.  Suppose  the  expert  could  discover  the 
weakness  of  a  building,  warn  his  fellows  of  their  danger 
and  thereby  prevent  the  awful  calamities  that  so  often  take 
place  in  our  large  cities.  Such  service  is  done  now  and  then, 
but  successfully  determining  a  person's  character  by  study- 
ing the  features  is  not  an  achievement  to  be  relied  upon. 
Yet,  in  the  great  commercial  world,  the  habit  of  singling 
out  men  for  certain  callings  by  appearance  only  has  driven 
many  an  honest  fellow  to  despair.  Thousands  of  honest 
men  and  women  are  daily  turned  from  places  where  employ- 
ment is  offered  because  they  cannot  pass  under  the  scrutin- 
izing gaze  of  some  expert  who  presumes  to  guage  their  fit- 
ness by  their  personal  appearance.  There  are  many  honest 
men  with  but  one  suit  of  clothes  which  will  in  time  become 
shabby,  look  shiny  in  spite  of  care ;  there  are  sober  men  and 
honest  men  with  nothing  with  which  to  appear  as  though 
they  were  honest  "sober  and  reliable,"  who,  "turned  down," 
go  back  to  their  suffering  families  with  no  look  of  hope, 
or  to  end  their  misery  by  suicide.  Who  can  successfully 
read  character  by  either  of  the  above-mentioned  mediums? 
No  one !  Yet  Mr.  Thomas  Dixon,  Jr.,  has  undertaken  to 
do  that  very  thing  in  an  article  written  in  defense  of  the 
"Clansman,"  published  in  the  September  number  of  the 
Metropolitan,  in  reply  to  the  following  criticism  of  his  lat- 
est work  in  a  Boston  paper:  "He  reaches  the  acme  of  his 
sectional  passions  when  he  exalts  the  Ku  Kluz  Klan  into  an 
association  of  Southern  patriots,  when  he  must  know,  or 
else  be  strangely  ignorant  of  American  history,  that  its 
members  were  as  arrant  ruffians,  desperadoes  and  scoun- 
drels as  ever  went  unhanged."  This  is  the  verdict  of  the 
world  that  has  already  passed  into  history.  But  Mr. 
Dixon  attempts  to  set  aside  this  verdict  by  publishing  the 
pictures  of  some  of  the  prominent  leaders  of  the  Ku  Klux 
Klan  and  asks  the  world  to  forget  their  awful  misdeeds  and 
accept  them  as  paragons  of  excellence  because  of  the  come- 
liness of  their  features.  In  Mr.  Dixon's  gallery  of  photo- 
graphs appears  the  likeness  of  Gen.  John  B.  Gordon,  of 
Georgia,  General  Forrest  of  Tennessee,  Rev.  W.  W.  Lan- 
dum  of  Atlanta,  Ga. ;  Hon.  John  W.  Morton  of  Tennessee. 

34 


The  gentleman  has  included  the  likeness  of  his  own  father, 
the  Rev.  Thomas  Dixon,  Sr.,  and  unwittingly  brands  him 
as  a  red-handed  murderer,  a  kind  of  Dr.  Jeykel  and  Mr. 
Hyde,  who  could  by  day  preach  the  Gospel  of  a  loving  and 
forgiving  Christ,  and  at  night  creep  forth  in  ghastly  regalia 
to  assist  devils  in  the  work  of  murder  and  rapine. 

In  comparing  the  likeness  of  his  father  with  that  of 
Thaddeus  Stephens,  Mr.  Dixon  says,  "A  study  of  the  por- 
trait of  Thaddeus  Stephens,  the  man  who  created  the  Union 
League  and  sent  it  on  its  mission  of  revenge  and  confisca- 
tion, and  the  face  of  my  father  may  settle  the  question  as 
which  of  two  was  the  desperado  in  this  stirring  drama." 
To  further  strengthen  his  defense  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  and 
its  dastardly  work,  the  reverend  gentleman,  in  contrast  to 
the  handsome  likenesses  of  some  of  its  members,  has  pub- 
lished the  picture  of  a  colored  man,  "The  lowest  type  of 
negro,  maddened  by  these  wild  doctrines,  began  to  grip  the 
throat  of  the  white  girl  with  his  black  claws.  The  bestial 
looking  creature  whose  portrait  accompanies  this  article  is 
a  photograph  of  this  type  from  life.  It  appeared  in  the 
first  editon  of  my  novel,  'The  Leopard's  Spots,'  but  the 
publishers  were  compelled  to  cut  it  out  of  all  subsequent 
editions,  because  Northern  readers  could  not  endure  to 
look  upon  the  face  of  such  a  thing,  even  in  a  picture."  And 
yet  we  come  across  or  meet  just  such  looking  men  in  our 
every  day  life  in  Northern  cities ;  they  are  the  trusted  but- 
lers, coachmen  and  men  of  all  work  in  nearly  every  aristo- 
cratic Southern  home.  Northern  women  who  went  South 
just  after  the  war  went  about  unmolested,  and  such  women 
are  still  going  about  unmolested  among  such  "things."  In 
the  month  of  July,  while  in  the  city  of  Philadelpha,  I 
attended  services  one  Sunday  morning  at  the  Wesley  Metho- 
dist Church  and  listened  to  an  eloquent  sermon  by  an 
eminent  Christian  minister  with  just  such  a  looking  face  as 
appears  in  Mr.  Dixon's  article.  Doubtless  no  sweeter  soul 
lived  than  reposed  beneath  that  ebony  skin,  and  no  provo- 
cation however  strong  could  induce  this  homely  disciple, 
made  in  the  image  of  his  Maker,  to  stoop  to  perform  the 
knavish  work  which  Mr.  Dixon  boasts  his  father  per- 
formed. 

35 


TAKES   ISSUE  WITH  THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE 

AND  THE  REV.  MR.  DIXON 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

Now  that  Mr.  Thomas  Nelson  Page  has  written  the  last 
installment  of  his  very  interesting  study  of  the  Race  pro- 
blem, the  question  uppermost  in  my  mind,  as  I  ponder  over 
the  closing  article  before  me,  is,  would  Mr.  Page  lift  a 
finger  to  remove  one  of  the  defects  in  the  race  he  has  so 
glaringly  enumerated?  Would  not  Thomas  Nelson  Page 
resist  with  all  the  strength  of  his  manhood  any  attempt 
on  the  part  of  friend  or  foe  to  open  the  closet  of  the  South- 
ern home  that  the  skeleton  which  hides  there  might  stalk 
forth  in  all  of  its  ugliness?  Yes!  a  thousand  times  Yes! 
An  attempt  at  such  a  thing  on  the  part  of  an  editor  in 
Memphis,  Tenn.,  some  years  ago,  resulted  in  the  demolish- 
ing of  his  entire  plant.  Another  such  attempt  at  Wilming- 
ton, N.  C,  in  1898,  resulted  in  the  wild  hunt  for  a  fugitive 
in  seven  States.  Looking  at  the  situation  from  this  view- 
point, Mr.  Page  occupies  the  positon  of  a  giant  in  armor 
striking  at  a  pigmy.  If  such  an  attack  upon  a  neighbor 
and  benefactor  is  Mr.  Page's  version  of  Southern  chiv- 
alry and  manhood,  let  us  build  a  monument  to  Judas  Iscar- 
iot  and  compose  anthems  of  praise  to  Benedict  Arnold. 
Emerging  slightly  from  the  beaten  path,  Mr.  Page  divides 
the  Negro  race  into  three  classes,  i.  e.,  the  respectable,  the 
middling  respectable  and  the  very  bad.  He  could  have  done 
much  in  the  way  of  assisting  that  respectable  element  by 
using  his  pen  in  an  assault  upon  the  law  just  passed  in  the 
State  of  Virginia,  which  places  such  a  woman  as  Mrs. 
Booker  T.  Washington  on  a  level  with  the  lowest  of  bad 
women.  The  gentleman  reluctantly  admits  that  the  Negro 
has  been  an  indespensible  adjunct — a  potent  factor  in  build- 
ing and  maintaining  this  republic,  and  yet  he  would  deprive 
him  from  breathing  the  air  he  has  helped  to  free  and  purify. 
To  put  a  little  more  than  3,500,000  blacks  in  this  country  it 
cost  Africa  40,000,000  human  lives  by  butchery,  starvation 
and  drowning.  A  trail  of  blood  followed  the  slave  ships 
from  Africa's  shores  to  the  American  coast.  Should  not  the 
penalty  for  such  a  horror  be  a  more  perplexing  problem  ?  As 

36 


is  not  the  case  with  the  white  race,  Mr.  Page  asserts  that 
education  does  not  improve  the  Negro's  morals.  He  is  a 
very  low  being.  But  listen  to  an  attack  from  the  mouth 
of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dixon  from  quite  another  and  unexpected 
source,  in  a  sermon  delivered  in  a  certain  Brooklyn  theatre, 
Sunday,  May  8th.  He  said:  "There  are  villages  in  New 
England  to-day  without  a  religious  service  from  January 
until  December,  except  an  occasional  funeral  service,  where 
the  Sabbath  is  no  more  regarded  than  by  Judge  Gaynor 
here,  and  where  marriage  is  scarcely  more  regarded  than  by 
the  people  in  the  heart  of  Africa.  The  people  have  drifted, 
not  into  infidelity,  but  into  licentiousness  and  sin  upon  sin, 
and  they  are  learned  and  cultured,"  etc.  These  are  white 
people,  and  the  same  may  exist  in  Mr.  Page's  neighbor- 
hood, but  he  hasn't  the  courage  to  say  it,  neither  has  Rev. 
Dixon,  who  is  a  Southerner.  Not  many  years  ago  in  a  Vir- 
ginia city,  a  Negro  man  and  a  white  woman  agreed  to 
marry,  and  in  order  to  avoid  trouble,  went  to  Washington, 
married  there  and  returned.  But  these  two  honest  people 
were  arrested,  tried  and  sentenced  each  to  five  years  in 
prison,  and  the  judge  in  sentencing  them  gave  them  a  long 
and  severe  lecture  on  ethics.  And  yet  that  very  judge 
maintained  a  Negro  woman  with  six  mulatto  children  with- 
in two  blocks  of  his  home.  Most  learned  judge!  Most 
excellent  exponent  of  ethics !  He  was  a  white  man !  This 
Negro  woman  was  the  leper  to  be  shunned.  It's  a  great 
thing  to  be  a  white  man ;  it  sugars  over  the  grossest  sins 
and  vineers  the  roughest  exteriors.  No  wonder  ignorant, 
renegade  Negroes  are  clamoring  for  face  bleach. 


37 


JACK  THORNE  UTTERS  A  BLAST  FOR  MANLI- 
NESS 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

When  a  few  evenings  ago  I  listened  to  an  address  by  a 
member  of  the  Afro-American  Business  League,  before 
the  Literary  Society  of  the  Carlton  Avenue  Branch  of  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  on  his  recent  visit  South,  I  remarked  at  its 
conclusion  that  comments  on  the  material  advancement  of 
the  Southern  Negro  in  consequence  of  the  general  denial 
of  the  franchise,  should  not  be  indulged  in  by  our  leaders 
as  a  reason  why  he  should  eschew  politics.  But  what  I  said 
was  not  favorably  received  by  the  audience,  who  was  mis- 
led by  the  fierce  retort  of  the  speaker,  who  held  that  politics 
was  a  bane  to  the  progress  of  the  Southern  man  of  color. 
I  hold,  however,  that  if  the  ballot  is  not  good  for  the  Negro, 
it  is  not  good  for  the  white  man.  If  it  is  not  good  for  the 
ignorant,  it  is  not  good  for  the  learned.  If  it  is  not  good 
for  the  poor  it  is  not  good  for  the  rich.  But  I  refrained 
from  prolonging  the  argument.  A  few  days  since  a  pub- 
lished interview  had  with  this  gentleman  by  a  Brooklyn 
paper's  representative,  relative  to  his  Southern  trip,  has 
been  handed  me  by  an  indignant  citizen,  with  a  request  that 
I  answer  it.  Our  friend  says  that  he  stopped  at  many 
points  (going  South)  long  enough  to  acquire  information 
on  the  condition  of  the  Negro  and  the  relations  between 
the  two  races.  He  looked  and  listened  in  vain,  he  said,  for 
encouragement.  "But  passing  through  the  South  this  way, 
one  is  confronted  with  the  worst  phase  of  the  problem  (?) 
because  the  stations  and  depots  are  the  centers  of  the  sloth- 
ful, vicious  and  ignorant  class  of  Negroes."  The  gentle- 
man saw  more  in  Atlanta  to  be  ashamed  of  than  proud  of, 
"for  the  worst  of  the  race  is  in  the  majority  and  more  in 
evidence,  and  the  race  is  judged  in  the  South  by  its  worst 
side.  So  long  as  the  self-respecting  Negroes  are  in  the 
minority,  the  slothful,  vicious  Negroes  will  be  mill-stones 
about  their  necks."  Too  bad !  Too  bad,  indeed !  The 
Southern  Negro  is  noted  for  his  humble  manners,  gener- 

38 


osity  and  hospitality,  looking  for  the  best  in  the  storehouse 
to  put  before  the  stranger,  and  I  am  a  witness  to  the  fact 
that  for  preparing  nice,  juicy,  tender,  fried  chicken,  all 
done  up  in  batter,  the  Southern  Negro  is  peculiar.  Now 
who  is  that  so  base  and  ungrateful  as  to  rise  from  a  table 
where  such  delicious  victuals  are  served  and  "backbite"  the 
neighbor  who  prepares  it?  We  are,  indeed,  sorry  that  this 
gentleman  could  not  return  to  the  North  with  something 
more  original  and  interesting  to  talk  about.  The  white 
man,  when  he  returns  from  the  South,  usually  returns 
Southern  hospitality  by  publicly  saying  something  to  please 
them,  and  nothing  is  more  pleasing  to  the  average  South- 
erner than  expressed  sympathy  for  him  in  his  very  un- 
pleasant environments  (all  his  own  making)  and  a  tirade 
against  the  Negro.  The  late  Miss  Frances  Willard,  on  her 
return  from  a  lengthy  stay  in  the  South,  publicly  thanked 
her  Southern  hosts  by  saying  in  a  magazine  article,  "I  pity 
the  Southern  people.  The  Negroes  are  swarming  like 
locusts  in  Egypt,  and  the  white  man  dare  not  leave  the 
threshold  of  his  own  door,"  etc.  A  more  malicious  false- 
hood was  never  uttered  against  a  defenceless  people.  The 
white  man  can  leave  the  threshold  of  his  door,  and  does 
leave  it  to  cross  that  of  the  black  man  to  scatter  shame 
and  ignominy,  which  he  can  do  with  impunity.  Now  why 
didn't  the  gentleman  follow  this  example  and  kick  the  other 
fellow?  When  a  few  years  ago  ex-Gov.  Northen  of 
Georgia  invaded  Boston  armed  with  a  typewritten  defence 
of  the  burning  of  Sam  Hose,  the  Congregational  Club  of 
that  city  paid  two  dollars  a  ticket  to  hear  an  African  Metho- 
dist bishop  refute  the  charges  made  by  the  Georgian  against 
his  people  and  defend  them.  The  members  of  that  club 
and  their  friends  listened  in  disgust  to  a  crawling  Negro 
who  joined  Northen  in  his  tirade  of  abuse.  "Thou  too 
Brutus?"  That  very  bishop  is  supported  in  luxury  by  those 
low(  ?),  vicious (  ?)  Negroes,  whom  he  was  not  man  enough 
to  defend,  and  they  should  repay  him  by  cutting  off  his 
meal  check. 

Now  our  friend  could  have  given  us  more  interesting 
talk  had  he  scoured  around  Atlanta  and  made  a  study  of 
the  low  whites  of  that  section,  for  God  has  not  created  a 

39 


being  lower  in  the  scale  of  humanity  than  a  Georgia 
"cracker,"  the  descendant  of  indentured  slaves,  lifted  out  of 
serfdom  by  Lincoln's  proclamation.  He  could  have  found 
hordes  of  such  creatures,  sitting  about,  whittling  sticks  and 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  commit  some  act  of  barbar- 
ism. At  Nashville,  which  he  also  visited,  he  could  have 
found  more  of  this  peculiar  people  to  interest  him,  and  fur- 
ther over  in  western  North  Carolina,  and  in  the  wilds  of 
Kentucky  he  could  have  found  material  with  which  to  have 
written  a  story  as  weird  and  fantastic  as  Haggard's  "She." 
How  he  could  have  thrilled  his  audiences !  The  good  white 
people  are  not  losing  any  sleep  over  this  class  amongst  their 
race,  neither  are  they  "mill  stones  about  their  necks."  I  do 
not  believe  that  there  can  be  found  in  Atlanta  or  its  vicinity, 
or  any  where  in  the  South,  Negroes  low  enough,  base 
enough,  blood-thirsty  enough  to  plan  the  burning  at  the 
stake  of  a  human  being  on  the  Sabbath  day;  to  charter 
trains  to  run  excursions  to  the  scene  'that  women  and  chil- 
dren might  witness  the  shocking  sight  of  a  man's  flesh  be- 
ing torn  from  his  body  ere  he  dies,  to  hear  the  wails  of  a 
tormented  creature,  praying  for  death  to  end  his  misery. 
No  black  this  side  of  Dahomey  could  have  loaded  his  pock- 
ets with  pieces  of  charred  human  flesh  and  minced  liver  and 
heart  to  hand  around  to  his  friends  as  souvenirs.  Now 
until  this  heathen  is  routed  out,  killed  off  or  civilized  it  is 
nonsense  to  be  harping  on  the  shortcomings  of  the  Negro, 
who  is  far  better. 

Brooklyn,  Oct.  ioth,  1903. 


THE  NEW  ORLEANS  RACE  RIOT 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  New  York  Times" : 

There  has  been  no  act  of  violence  in  recent  years  in  the 
South  more  atrocious  and  shameful  than  that  of  that  mob 
upon  the  streets  of  New  Orleans  a  few  days  ago.  The 
claim  of  the  mob  and  their  sympathizers  is  that  a  Negro 
desperado  had  killed  a  police  officer  in  the  discharge  of  his 
duty.    Yet  there  is  nothing  in  the  affair  to  show  that  Robert 

40 


Charles,  who  was  sitting  quietly  upon  his  doorstep  when 
interfered  with,  was  a  desperate  character.  The  title  of 
"desperado,"  "Negro  murderer,"  is  very  easily  obtained  in 
the  South.  To  strike  back  in  his  own  defence,  even  to 
save  his  own  life,  has  made  the  Negro  an  outlaw  in  the 
South  and  put  a  price  upon  his  head.  But  who  were  the 
desperadoes  in  this  case?  That  mob  of  men  and  boys  who 
terrorized  New  Orleans  and  trampled  upon  law  and  order. 
Looking  over  this  awful  event,  I  can  see  but  one  hero — one 
man,  and  that  was  Robert  Charles.  If  this  calm,  nervy, 
deliberate  black  man,  facing  certain  and  ignominious  death, 
and  yet  using  his  rifle  with  such  telling  effect,  is  not  a  hero, 
then  let  the  names  of  the  martyrs  of  the  Alamo  be  erased 
from  the  page  of  history.  One  hundred  and  fifty  men  like 
Robert  Charles  and  armed  as  he  was  would  have  brought 
that  mob  to  its  senses.  David,  the  shepherd  boy,  in  his 
lament  over  Saul  and  Jonathan,  slain  in  battle  against  the 
tantalizing  Philistines,  counseled  Israel  to  teach  the  chil- 
dren the  use  of  the  bow.  The  child  should  be  taught  that 
self-defense  is  as  essential,  as  obligatory  as  self-respect, 
and  the  use  of  the  rifle  as  the  alphabet. 
Brooklyn,  1899. 


A  PROTEST  AGAINST  THE  UTTERANCES  AT 
THE  Y.  M.  C.  A.  CELEBRATION 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle": 

It  was  indeed  a  happy  assemblage  that  gathered  at  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  colored  branch  of  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association — happy  over  a  most  flattering  show- 
ing of  an  organization  just  one  year  old.  When  an  audi- 
ence is  in  a  jovial  mood  its  discriminating  faculties  become 
dormant  and  the  applauding  spirit  predominates  to  such  an 
extent  that  both  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous  in  the  per- 
formance are  alike  encouraged.  While  the  music  and 
speech-making  were  creditable,  some  of  the  latter  was  not 
without  a  smack  of  the  ridiculous.    For  to  say  to  a  people 

41 


whose  ancestors  landed  here  before  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
that  they  have  yet  to  earn  their  citizenship  is  both  ridiculous 
and  un-Christian.  Such  a  thing  is  not  said  to  the  meanest 
emigrant.  No  Christian  can  afford  to  accord  to  the  brother 
in  black  anything  less  than  citizenship,  and  that  carries  with 
it  a  common  interest  in  the  wealth  and  prosperity  of  the 
country  of  which  he  is  a  citizen.  It  is  characteristic  of  the 
average  Afro-American  to  be  liberal  with  his  "Amen"  and 
"That's  so,"  but  he  should  not  give  such  assent  to  any 
speech-maker  who  seeks  to  impress  the  doctrine  that  he 
himself  is  the  recipient  of  that  which  he  had  no  part  in 
accumulating;  that  he  has  been  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  an  idle  on-looker  while  the  white  man  accomplished 
everything.  He  who  hewed  down  the  forests,  tilled  the 
fields,  made  the  breadstuffs,  is  just  as  indispensable  in  the 
building  of  a  nation  as  he  who  pockets  the  proceeds  and 
makes  the  laws.  That  power  which  is  at  work,  seeking  to 
in  any  way  abridge  the  privileges  of  the  black  citizen  is 
of  the  devil.  It  is  hoped  that  the  compromising  attitude 
of  one  of  the  prominent  speakers  at  that  anniversary  does 
not  characterize  the  giver  of  that  handsome  building  to  the 
Carlton  Acenue  Branch  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  who  should  feel 
himself  a  steward  of  God's  wealth. 
Brooklyn,  May  23d,  1903. 


THE  STATESBORO  LYNCHING 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

E.  A.  Corey  of  Statesboro,  Ga.,  attorney  for  the  two 
Negroes  recently  burned  at  the  stake  at  that  place,  is  quoted 
as  saying  that  it  was  impossible  to  save  these  men ;  that  the 
mob,  which  was  composed  of  some  of  the  best  people  of 
Bulloch  County,  had  laid  their  plans  with  precision  that 
could  not  fail  of  success.  God  help  the  worst  people  of 
Bulloch  County.  We  can  reckon  upon  no  best  people  in 
passing  upon  an  episode  of  this  kind.     The  people  of  the 

42 


North  should  no  longer  allow  themselves  to  be  deluded  by 
the  threadbare  excuses  that  the  "atrociousness  of  the 
crime,"  etc.,  "roused  the  people  to  take  the  law  into  their 
own  hands  and  meet  out  such  punishment  as  a  warning  to 
others."  Embittered  by  the  Negro's  freedom  and  phenom- 
enal advancement,  these  people  need  no  atrocious  crime  to 
arouse  them  to  intimidation,  murder  and  tortune.  Bits  of 
the  charred  remains  of  these  men  Cato  and  Reade  were 
packed  by  some  of  the  members  of  the  mob,  and  only  the 
stout  refusal  of  the  express  company  to  ship  them  saved 
the  President  from  the  insult  of  receiving  these  ghastly 
relics  as  a  present  from  Georgia's  "best  people,"  who  would 
rather  burn  than  "his  Negroes."  When,  in  '98,  six  men 
under  suspicion  of  having  burned  a  barn  were  tied  and  shot 
to  death  at  Palmetto,  Ga.,  Governor  Chanler  excused  the 
deed  by  saying  that  McKinley  had  insulted  the  South  by 
sending  Negroes  to  the  Spanish-American  war,  and  the 
sight  of  Negroes  carrying  swords  and  wearing  bars  so 
exasperated  the  Southern  people  that  the  deed  was  excus- 
able. Gov.  Chanler  could  not  shoot  McKinley  for  insulting 
the  South,  so  he  glutted  his  ire  by  sanctioning  the  butchery 
of  six  innocent  men.  It  is  said  that  it  was  the  story  of  the 
little  girl's  piteous  plea  to  the  murderers  to  spare  her  life 
that  so  aroused  the  mob,  but  would  a  plea  of  that  sort  from 
a  Negro  child  to  a  white  murderer  in  Georgia  so  arouse? 
It  would  be  as  easy  to  stop  the  earth  in  its  course  as  to  con- 
vict a  white  man  for  such  a  crime  against  a  Negro  family 
in  the  South.  The  only  crime  Postmaster  Baker  had  com- 
mitted at  Lake  City,  S.  C,  was  that  of  holding  by  appoint- 
ment a  Federal  position.  But  a  mob  burned  his  home,  shot 
him  to  death,  killed  an  innocent  babe  in  his  arms  and  wound- 
ed his  wife  and  daughters.  The  awful  details  of  this  crime 
by  one  of  the  murderers  upon  the  witness  stand  aroused  no 
one.  Even  the  tears  of  the  judge  failed  to  move  a  jury  to 
convict  a  gang  of  self-confessed  murderers.  Past  experi- 
ence with  deeds  of  this  kind  prompts  us  to  question  the  guilt 
of  Cato  and  Reade.  Considering  even  the  alleged  confessions 
of  the  men,  the  testimony  of  their  wives  reinforced  by  that 
of  the  "best  people,"  there  is  room  for  reasonable  doubt. 
Brooklyn,  Sept.  5th,  1904. 

43 


LETTERS   OF  JACK  THORNE;  THEY   ARE  VE- 
HEMENTLY OBJECTED  TO  BY  WOMAN 
CORRESPONDENT 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Eagle" ' : 

From  my  point  of  view,  I  hardly  think  there  is  another 
paper  aside  from  the  "yellows"  that  would  permit  such  dis- 
gusting, anarchistic  matter  as  you  print  about  once  a  week 
from  the  pen  of  the  Negro  admirer,  Jack  Thorne.  All 
papers  without  Negro  blood  on  the  staff  put  these  dreadful, 
ignorant,  ranting  productions  in  the  waste  basket.  The  dis- 
gusting details  set  forth,  if  printed,  should  be  accompanied 
by  illustrations  like  those  of  the  sensational  papers.  Some 
of  the  Eagle  tours  should  be  conducted  through  the  South, 
taking  relays  of  hard- worked  editors  along  so  they  would 
be  able  to  see  things  at  close  range  and  not  depend  on 
creatures  like  Emma  Goldman  for  information.  The  mor- 
bid details  given  in  the  last  serving  printed  to-day  never 
appeared  in  the  news  columns  of  the  Eagle,  or  any  other 
claiming  cleanliness.  Why  then  in  a  letter?  People  who 
read  decent  literature,  and  who  have  traveled  and  lived  all 
over  this  country,  do  not  like  to  read  such  filthy  things  in 
print,  even  in  the  advertising  portions.  If  I  am  obliged  to 
read  it  I  shall  just  discontinue  patronage  of  the  Eagle  as  an 
advertiser  and  as  a  subscriber.  I  know  others  who  will  not 
stand  it.  Why  don't  you  get  out  a  Negro  sheet  for  that 
class  of  patronage?  The  ones  you  try  to  include  would  be, 
no  doubt,  accommodated.  The  next  thing  of  the  kind  in  the 
Eagle's  columns  will  cost  it  many  dollars  of  withdrawn 
advertisements,  and  I  will  never  send  it  through  the  mails 
again  or  allow  it  in  my  presence. 

Brooklyn,  Sept.  7th,  1904.  ANNIE  CARTER. 


The  Eagle  gives  perfect  freedom  of  discussion  in  this 
column  to  all  who  comply  with  the  simple  rules  which  have 
been  made  and  which  are  printed  from  time  to  time.  It 
prints  Jack  Thome's  letter  because  the  rules  are  complied 
with,  just  as  willingly  as  it  prints  this  correspondent's  let- 
ter, because  it  believes  the  opening  of  its  columns  to  such 
discussion  is  one  of  the  most  important  of  its  public  duties. 

EDITOR  "EAGLE." 

44 


VIEWS  OF  R.  S.  KING  ON  THE  GEORGIA 
LYNCHING 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Eagle" : 

In  Georgia,  which  was  admitted  into  the  Union  prema- 
turely, before  its  people  were  civilized  and  fit  to  be  ranked  as 
citizens — a  district  that  to-day  is  barbarous,  and  whose  most 
civilized  are  amply  rankling  with  savagery  to  shake  the 
foundation  of  any  constitutional  government — occurred  an 
act  that  has  not  only  disgraced  the  Southern  States,  but  one 
that  has  belittled  in  the  eyes  of  foreign  republics  the  land  of 
the  brave  and  the  free.  The  Negro  boy  criminals,  like 
Caucasian  boy  criminals,  committed  the  atrocious  crime  of 
murder.  They  were  arrested,  tried  and  condemned  to  die, 
of  course.  A  reverened  brother  of  the  criminals'  prey  is 
said  to  have  discountenanced  violence  and  exhorted  the 
murderous  Christian  brethren,  church  members  and  others 
directly  connected  with  the  worst  outrage  in  the  annals  of 
crimonology;  but  too  indistinguishable  were  the  majestic 
ethics  of  legal  execution  from  rough  shod  barbarity  for 
them  and  too  rankling  with  breeded  savagery  were  these 
men  to  let  the  law  enjoty  its  supremacy. 

This  act  serves  to  demonstrate  that  the  South  is  lurid 
with  depraved  ignorance  and  wicked  savagery.  Robert 
Ingersoll  once  said,  if  you  should  give  him  Georgia  and 
hell,  he'd  rent  out  Georgia  and  live  in  hell. 

R.  S.  KING. 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


MRS.  PARKER  DEFENDS  JACK  THORNE 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

In  last  week's  Collier's — Leslie's,  also — are  pictures  of 
the  recent  burning  of  Reed  and  Cato  at  Statesboro,  Ga. 
The  one  illustration  shows  the  men  before  the  burning, 
chained  to  a  tree.  After  the  awful  execution  the  other  one 
is  taken,  and  shows  a  small  heap  of  ashes  by  the  smoking 
stump.    Leslie's  and  Collier's  are  not  classed  as  "yellows," 

45 


but  are  rather  two  of  the  leading  magazines  of  this  coun- 
try, and  yet  they  care  so  little  about  the  standing  of  the 
American  Nation  among  other  civilized  peoples  that  they 
unblushingly  scatter  broadcast  such  ghastly  evidences  of 
American  depravity  and  retrogression.  The  correspondent 
calling  herself  Anne  Carter  should  vie  with  Jack  Thorne 
in  denouncing  this  awful  blot  upon  civilization,  instead  of 
assailing  him  as  an  ignorant  writer  of  anarchistic  matter. 
There  never  was  more  ignorant  ranting  indulged  in  than  the 
anamidversions  upon  the  administration  of  President 
Roosevelt  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  Howell  and  Walters  a 
few  evenings  ago.  Mrs.  Carter  would  do  well  to  read  these 
rantings.  They  are  more  disgusting  than  Jack  Thome's 
defense  of  a  humble  people.  Some  one  remarked  the  other 
day  that  the  Czar  of  Russia  should  be  hanged.  Should  not 
the  Governor  of  Georgia  be  hanged  also?  If  Georgia  was  a 
Russian  province  he  would  be  hanged  if  he  did  not  punish 
the  perpetrators  of  this  awful  crime.  The  American  Negro 
is  being  butchered,  hanged,  flayed  alive  and  burned  at  the 
stake,  and  there  seems  no  redress  neither  in  State  or  coun- 
try, to  which  they  have  proven  themselves  loyal  in  every 
conflict  waged  for  the  country's  maintenance.  During  the 
Civil  War  the  slave  guarded  safely  the  home  of  the  master 
on  the  battlefield,  whom  he  had  every  reason  to  believe 
would  not  come  back.  Now  because  that  war  waged  for 
the  perpetuation  of  slavery  and  the  increase  of  slave  terri- 
tory resulted  in  the  victory  of  Union  arms  and  the  conse- 
quent freedom  of  that  faithful  slave,  every  method  is  re- 
sorted to  to  make  his  freedom  undesirable.  If  Mrs.  Carter 
thinks  Jack  Thome's  writings  "ranting,"  I  hope  that  he  will 
continue  to  rant  until  the  white  race  realizes  that  for  its 
own  preservation,  for  its  own  integrity,  humane  treatment 
must  be  accorded  to  others. 

MRS.  M.  E.  J.  PARKER. 
Brooklyn,  Sept.  12th,  1904. 


Mrs.  Mary  Elizabeth  Jobes  Parker,  author  of  the  above 
brave  epistle,  is  among  the  most  interesting  of  Brooklyn 
women,  with  a  wonderfully  retentive  memory.  A  fascinat- 
ing and  instructive  conversationist,  Mrs.  Parker's  reminis- 

46 


cences  of  her  early  life  in  New  York,  her  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  men  and  women  of  the  race  who  figured  promi- 
nently in  the  business  and  social  life  of  the  great  Metropolis 
in  days  gone  by,  make  her  a  most  interesting  host.  Mrs. 
Parker,  who  was  born  in  New  Jersey  and  who  taught 
school  in  that  State  before  the  War,  comes  of  noble  an- 
cestry. Her  grandmother  and  great-grandmother  on  her 
mother's  side  were  English ;  her  great-grandmother  on  her 
father's  side  was  an  African  princess  who,  because  of  her 
marked  intelligence,  was  given  her  freedom.  Her  great- 
grandfather on  her  father's  side  was  a  Madigascan.  Mrs. 
Parker  is  one  of  the  most  successful  book  canvassers  of  the 
East;  she  has  handled  the  works  of  nearly  every  author  of 
the  race.  She  has  been  quite  a  successful  insurance  writer 
and  is  now  an  agent  for  the  Metropolitan  Mercantile  & 
Realty  Co.  Mrs.  Parker  is  an  earnest  and  unswerving 
race-woman,  always  ready,  both  with  tongue  and  pen,  to 
champion  the  cause  of  her  people. 


GOVERNOR  TERRELL'S  CHIVALRY 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

It  is  said  of  George  Washington  that  one  day  while  he 
was  conversing  with  another  gentleman,  a  Negro  slave 
passed  and  raised  his  hat,  and  Washington,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  his  companion,  returned  the  salute  by  raising  his 
hat  also. 

"Why  General,"  asked  the  other,  "do  you  thus  salute  a 
Negro  ?" 

"I  cannot  allow  a  Negro  to  be  more  polite  than  myself," 
returned  Washington."  I  do  not  suppose  this  incident  was 
made  a  campaign  slogan,  or  that  an  extra  cession  of  Con- 
gress was  called  to  discuss  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of 
Washington's  civility  to  a  slave.  General  Washington's  polite 
note  to  Phylis  Wheatly,  the  Negro  poetess,  is  among  choice 
American  literature.    What  a  contrast  is  this,  the  Father  of 

47 


His  Country  to  Governor  Terrell  of  Georgia,  who  is  loud 
in  the  praise  of  an  officer  from  that  State  who  refused  to 
return  the  salute  of  a  freeman  and  an  officer  at  Manassas ! 
Had  this  officer  been  of  the  same  race  the  Nation  would 
have  risen  up  to  condemn  this  man  for  conduct  unbecom- 
ing an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  Because  a  State  or  even  a 
whole  Nation  boasts  that  a  thing  is  right,  does  not  make  it 
right.  We  could  not  have  done  without  the  Black  Phalanx 
in  '63,  and  the  immunes  were  indispensable  in  '98,  and  are 
we  sure  we  may  not  need  them  again?  Shall  not  they  who 
led  the  assault  and  "memorized  another  Golgotha"  at  San 
Juan,  share  the  honors  of  war  in  times  of  peace?  Talk  of 
shooting  down  such  benefactors  as  they  passed  in  review 
is  unprecedented  even  among  heathen  nations.  Days  when 
knighthood  was  in  flower  and  barons  held  their  sway  are 
past.  He  who  would  exact  homage  must  remember  that 
there  is  some  concession  on  his  part,  even  to  the  humblest, 
expected.  The  master  who  kicked  his  chattels  and  exacted 
obedience  to  his  every  wish,  must  realize  and  appreciate  the 
fact  that  he  who  was  once  an  abject  is  a  man. 
Brooklyn,  Sept.  18th,  1904. 


48 


HITS  AT  JACK  THORNE  AGAIN 


Mr.  Goodsir  Once  More  States  His  View 
of  the  Lynching  Question 


To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle": 

In  the  Eagle  of  September  15th  was  an  article  by  John 
P.  Goodsir,  in  which  he  referred  to  Jack  Thorn  and  R.  S. 
King,  two  negroes,  as  vindicating  Negro  crime,  in  answer 
to  which  I  would  like  to  advance  my  ignorance  of  founda- 
tion for  his  statement. 

I  have  been  a  constant  reader  of  the  Eagle  and  since 
becoming  a  teacher  of  this  State  have  taken  greater  interest 
in  the  paper.  Although  my  parents  are  among  the  strict- 
est Christians  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  blood,  I,  as  a  rational 
being,  irrespective  of  creed,  religion  and  nationality,  must 
admit  that  I  really  enjoy  Mr.  King's  discussions  as  I  also 
do  Jack  Thorn's.  I  consider  their  contributions  to  the 
Eagle  the  work  of  brilliant  minds. 

MISS  E.  J.  EVANS. 

New  Bedford,  Mass.,  Sept  20th,  1904. 


To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

In  Saturday's  issue,  Miss  E.  J.  Evans  of  New  Bedford, 
Mass.,  says:  "In  the  Eagle  of  September  15  was  an  article 
by  John  P.  Goodsir,  in  which  he  referred  to  Jack  Thorne 
and  R.  S.  King,  two  negroes,  as  vindicating  Negro  crime, 
in  answer  to  which  I  would  like  to  advance  my  ignorance 
of  the  foundation  for  his  statement." 

Well,  as  my  critic  is  a  Miss,  I  would  like  to  enlighten 
her,  and  as  it  is  leap  year,  I  claim  the  privilege  of  the  last 
word.    In  an  article  by  Jack  Thorne,  published  in  the  Eagle 

49 


September  7,  he  says :  "Governor  Chanler  could  not  shoot 
McKinley  for  insulting  the  South,  so  he  glutted  his  ire  by 
sanctioning  the  butchery  of  six  innocent  men."  He  also 
says  of  two  negroes  burned  for  committing  the  most  hor- 
rible crimes  against  women:  "The  express  company  saved 
President  Roosevelt  from  the  insult  of  receiving  these 
ghastly  relics  from  Georgia's  'best  people',  who  would 
rather  burn  him  than  his  negroes." 

I  would  remind  Miss  Evans  of  the  fact  that  President 
McKinley  was  highly  delighted  at  his  hearty  reception  by 
these  "best  people,"  whom  Jack  Thorne,  a  negro,  insults 
by  such  palpable  misstatements.  President  Roosevelt's 
mother  was  a  Bulloch  of  Georgia,  and  he  has  been  in  the 
South  associating  with  these  "best  people"  whom  Jack 
Thorne,  a  Negro,  says  "would  rather  burn  him,"  and  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt  is  a  good  friend  personally  of  these  "best 
people,"  who  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  injure  him 
nor  see  him  harmed. 

These  "best  people"  whom  Jack  Thorne,  a  Negro,  sneers 
at  are  thoroughbred  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  Miss  E.  J. 
Evans  of  New  Bedford,  Mass.,  considers  his  statement  to 
be  true  and  interesting.  She  is  perfectly  welcome  to  have 
such  an  opinion;  I  do  not  agree  with  her,  and  say  further, 
that  Jack  Thorne,  in  making  such  statements,  endeavors  to 
vindicate  "Negro  crime,"  insults  our  President's  deceased 
mother's  memory,  for  she  was  of  those  "best  people"  whom 
Negro  Jack  Thorne  sneers  at,  and  practically  tells  a  deliber- 
ate falsehood  in  insinuating  that  Governor  Chanler  and  the 
"best  people"  would  like  to  shoot  McKinley.  This  is  the 
kind  of  Negro  which  Miss  E.  J.  Evans  coddles  and  favors 
when  she  writes  such  an  article  as  was  published  from  her 
pen  on  Saturday.  R.  S.  King,  another  Negro,  said,  in  a 
letter  on  a  Georgia  lynching  of  two  murderers :  "This  act 
serves  to  demonstrate  that  the  South,  so  far  from  being 
civilized,  is  lurid  with  depraved  ignorance  and  wicked  sav- 
agery." This  statement  is  a  vile  insult  to  all  our  fair  South- 
ern women,  and  only  a  coward  would  be  afraid  to  say  that 
it  is  a  deliberate  lie,  for  this  Negro  refers,  of  course,  to  the 
"best  people,"  whom  both  these  Negroes  mentioned  sneer 
at,  and  Miss  E.  J.  Evans  attempts  to  vindicate.    My  letter, 

50 


published  on  Thursday,  September  15,  1904,  has  the  hearty 
approval  of  fair  women  and  brave  men,  highly  educated, 
refined  and  cultured;  and  a  letter  published  in  the  New 
York  Times,  the  day  after  mine  by  James  Callaway  of 
Macon,  Ga.,  he  shows  clearly  that  it  is  not  the  Negro  nor 
politics,  but  merely  the  question  of  the  freedom  of  white 
women  of  the  South,  who  are  practically  prisoners,  and  in 
constant  fear  of  being  menaced  by  crouching  Negroes,  not 
of  the  better  class,  which,  alas,  are  in  the  minority.  May 
God  have  mercy  on  the  flowers  of  the  South  when  Thornes, 
Kings  and  Miss  Evans  make  such  statements  as  they  have 
done  against  the  South  and  its  "best  people." 

JOHN  PETRIE  GOODSIR. 
Sea  Cliff,  Aug.  18,  1904. 


THANKS  TO  MR.  GOODSIR 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

Allow  me  to  thank  Mr.  Goodsir  through  your  paper  for 
his  clear,  concise  views  as  expressed  in  his  letter  of  to-day. 
As  a  Southern  woman  of  the  "best  class,"  I  appreciate  his 
championships  and  can  say  I  know  what  it  is  to  live  in  fear 
of  the  "crouching  Negro."  ANNE  CARTER. 

Brooklyn,  Sept.  19,  1904. 


GOODSIR  THANKS  MRS.  CARTER 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

Permit  me  to  thank  Mrs.  Carter  for  the  public  expres- 
sion of  her  appreciation  of  my  views  on  the  Race  ques- 
tion as  it  is  regarded  by  some,  but  in  reality  is  the  freedom 
of  Southern  women  from  fear  of  the  "crouching  Negro." 
In  one  way,  I  regret  that  she  has  done  so,  for  she  is  likely 
to  be  flooded  with  undesirable  literature  and  scurrilous 
notes.  However,  I  appreciate  her  kindness  all  the  more,  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  I  have  not  the  honor  of  her  acquaint- 
ance. What  aroused  me  to  expose  the  fallacy  and  mislead- 
ing statements  of  Thorne  and  King  was  the  "Negro  cod- 
dling letter"  of  Miss  E.  J.  Evans  of  New  Bedford,  Mass., 
published  last  Saturday,  and  also  the  fact  that  Thorne  and 

51 


King  both  elaborate  on  the  too  popular  and  untruthful  idea 
that  the  "best  people"  have  no  desire  for  the  Negro's  wel- 
fare and  treat  him  most  brutally,  while  such  is  not  the  case. 
In  an  article  written  by  me  more  than  four  years  ago,  I 
showed  clearly  that,  in  a  grand  majority  of  cases,  the 
Negro's  personality  is  not  congenial,  socially  to  the  whites ; 
that  society  and  its  circles  are  based  upon  congeniality  of 
personalities,  temperaments,  ideas  and  aims.  All  of  us 
white  people  are  not  congenial  to  one  another.  To  some 
people,  as  soon  as  we  meet,  we  are  drawn  towards  them,  and 
a  bond  of   friendship  firmly  established.     *     *     * 

Now  the  Negro,  who  is  successfully  in  business  is  praised 
by  us  of  the  white  race.  However,  we  do  not  care  to  have 
a  Negro  lead  the  German  or  cortillon  with  one  of  our  fair 
Southern  women.  To  hear  some  Massachusetts  people  talk, 
one  would  think  it  is  a  crime  because  they  are  not  allowed  to 
do  so.  Governor  Terrell  would  no  doubt  take  off  his  hat 
and  shake  hands  with  an  old  darkey  slave  who  had  served 
in  his  family  faithfully  and  well.  I  have  seen  fair  women 
throw  their  arms  around  their  old  "brack  mammys"  and 
hug  them,  and  I  wished  for  the  moment  that  I  was  in  old 
aunty's  place.  George  Washington,  we  admit,  took  off  his 
hat  to  an  old  and  faithful  slave,  but  Washington  did  not 
slop  over  in  regard  to  his  officers  and  men  for  simply  doing 
their  duty  to  the  Nation,  their  wives,  children  and  them- 
selves. JOHN  PETRIE  GOODSIR. 

Sea  Cliff,  Sept.  21,  1904. 


JACK  THORNE  SILENCES  GOODSIR 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle": 

Just  a  few  months  ago  the  heirs  of  "Click"  Mitchell,  who 
was  actually  kicked  and  hacked  to  death  by  a  mob  at 
Urbana,  Ohio,  about  five  years  ago,  received  from  the 
county  in  which  Ubana  is  situated,  $5,500.  This  recalls 
one  of  the  most  shocking  episodes  that  ever  disgraced  Ohio. 
The  yelling  of  "Extras"  through  the  streets  of  New  York, 
with  their  glaring  headlines,  and  a  woman's  incendiary  let- 
ter of  thanks  to  her  avengers,  made  me  feel,  as  I  rode  down 
Sixth  Avenue  on  that  day,  that — although  far  removed 
from  the  scene — as  though  I  myself  was  the  very  culprit 

52 


as  I  felt  the  burning  gaze  of  my  fellow  passengers  riveted 
upon  me.  Now,  at  the  end  of  five  years,  an  article  appear- 
ing in  the  Outlook  (and  the  Outlook  is  a  recognized  au- 
thority) states  that  the  alleged  crime  for  which  this  man 
died,  and  for  which  this  comparatively  poor  community  was 
so  heavily  fined,  was  never  committed.  Now  what  kind  of 
government  have  we  where  a  woman  can  summon  an  inno- 
cent man  before  her  and  without  trial  send  him  to  a  death 
so  barbarous  and  cruel?  Do  we  live  in  the  days  of  Cath- 
arine DeMidicis,  Bloody  Marys  and  Robespierres  ?  If  so, 
let  us  change  our  form  of  government  to  an  absolute  mon- 
archy, put  a  woman  on  the  throne  and  revive  the  guillotine. 
I  have  said,  and  reiterate  it,  that  the  white  woman  over 
which  there  is  so  much  needless  ado,  is  as  safe  in  Missis- 
sippi as  she  is  in  Massachusetts,  and  instead  of  keeping  up 
the  cry  of  "wolf,"  she  might  reach  down  from  her  high 
estate  and  extend  a  helping  hand  to  the  black  woman,  the 
prey  of  the  men  of  both  races  in  the  South,  and  whose  word 
would  not  be  taken  against  a  white  man  in  a  court  of  law 
south  of  Mason's  and  Dixon's  line.  Know  ye  not  that 
Simon  Legree  stalks  abroad  unrebuked  in  the  South,  so 
long  as  he  preys  only  upon  the  child  of  the  "alien"  ?  Thou- 
sands of  innocent  and  defenceless  Negro  girls  are  led  actray 
in  the  South  yearly  by  these  very  "educated"  and  "refined" 
gentlemen  of  whom  Mr.  Goodsir  boasts  so  extravagantly. 
Now  such  weaklings  are  poor  defenders  of  women.  Such 
men  can  "crouch"  with  impunity,  there  is  no  one  to  run 
them  down  and  no  law  to  punish  them.  The  gentleman  in 
referring  to  Jack  Thorne  has  taken  great  pains  all  through 
his  letter  to  stigmatize  me  as  "Jack  Thorne  the  Negro." 
Such  modes  of  attack  have  been  very  disastrous  to  us  at 
times.  It  is  our  privilege,  however,  to  dignify  that  name. 
I  would  inform  the  gentleman  that  I  am  a  Negro  full- 
blooded.  Thanks  to  my  sainted  mother  there  is  not  a  drop 
of  the  blood  of  his  race  in  my  veins.  It  saves  me  from  the 
sin  of  cursing  her  very  memory.  I  belong  to  a  race  too 
magnanimous  to  kick  the  prostrate,  oppress  the  weak,  hide 
their  own  sins  and  blow  other  people's  short  comings  to  the 
winds.  JACK  THORNE. 

Brooklyn,  Sept.  21,  1904. 

53 


To  the  Editor  of  the  "Citizen": 

In  last  Sunday's  edition  of  one  of  the  leading  newspapers 
of  Manhattan  appeared  the  story  of  "A  Woman  Who 
Watched  a  Real  Cannibal  Feast." 

"Mrs.  Beulah  M.  Turtle,  a  young  American  missionary," 
the  paper  goes  on  to  say,  "is  now  telling  in  a  series  of  public 
lectures  a  story  of  adventure  which  eclipses  the  wildest 
flights  of  the  imaginations  of  writers  of  dime  novels.  'I 
can  never  forget  the  terrible  things  which  caused  my  hair 
to  turn  gray  almost  in  a  single  night.  The  scenes  live  in 
my  memory  as  a  dark  nightmare,  a  horrible  dream  which  I 
only  wish  was  not  true.  My  experience  among  the  can- 
nibals has  been  a  shock  to  my  nervous  system  from  which  I 
am  afraid  I  will  never  recover',"  etc.,  Mrs.  Tuttle  is  relat- 
ing her  experience  with  cannibals  on  the  Caroline  Islands. 
But  it  seems  strange  that  she  could  horrify  an  American 
audience  with  such  a  story;  a  people  to  whom  such  scenes 
as  has  turned  this  lady's  hair  "gray  almost  in  a  single 
night"  are  e very-day  occurrences,  to  attract  no  more  atten- 
tion than  a  dog  fight  to  those  who  read  of  them;  a  people 
who  invite  women  and  children  to  witness  the  burning  of  a 
human  being  alive  at  the  stake,  to  hear  his  agonizing  cries 
as  he  slowly  dies,  to  see  his  entrails  torn  out  of  his  body, 
his  eyes  gouged  out  of  his  head,  his  heart  cut  out,  his  fingers 
and  ears  cut  off  and  distributed  among  the  audience,  who 
eagerly  seize  them  for  souvenirs.  The  very  things  which  to 
witness  has  made  Mrs.  Tuttle  a  nervous  wreck  pale  into 
insignificance  besides  the  barbarities  that  it's  possible  to  be 
enacted  at  any  time  in  any  Southern  State.  Mrs.  Tuttle 
concludes  the  story  of  killing  and  eating  of  twelve  sailors 
by  cannibals,  as  follows :  "Then  I  saw  a  terrible  thing. 
One  of  the  sailors  moved.  He  had  only  been  stunned  by 
the  blow  from  the  club  and  had  partially  recovered  con- 
sciousness. One  of  the  savages  saw  the  sailor  regaining  his 
senses.     Another  blow  with  the  club  and  the  sailor  was 

54 


killed  and  put  out  of  his  suffering.  The  fuel  was  gathered 
and  naked  bodies  of  the  dead  sailors  roasted  over  it.  The 
chief  ate  first.  After  dancing  and  singing  a  few  minutes  he 
allowed  his  followers  to  partake."  That  is,  indeed,  a  hor- 
rible story.  But  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Turtle's  dramatic  re- 
citals have  the  desired  effect  upon  calloused  American  audi- 
ences. "The  sailor  was  killed  and  put  out  of  his  suffering." 
Why,  that's  merciful  and  even  commendable  in  a  savage. 
We  Christian  Americans  can  go  these  poor,  ignorant 
heathen,  whose  only  object  was  to  feast,  one  better  in  acts 
of  cruelty  and  barbarism ;  we  roast  the  human  being  alive 
at  the  stake  and  with  pleasure  witness  his  agony  and  suf- 
fering and  laugh  at  his  prayers  for  death  to  end  them.  It 
is  an  awful  thing  to  burn  a  human  being  alive.  The 
American  Humane  Society  would  imprison  a  person  for 
such  treatment  of  the  lowest  brute  kind.  Yet  this  treat- 
ment of  human  creatures  has  become  a  fixed  custom  in 
some  of  our  commonwealths,  sanctioned  by  the  Nation 
and  recommended  by  the  President  in  his  last  message  to 
Congress,  but  perhaps  unwittingly.  "The  Negro's  worst 
enemy  is  the  criminal,"  says  the  Chief  Executive.  But  a 
thousand  per  cent,  more  dangerous  to  the  American 
people  is  the  mob  who  openly  defies  law  and  order  and 
tramples  upon  justice.  There  may  be  doubt  as  to  the 
guilt  of  a  culprit  in  the  hands  of  a  mob,  but  there  is  not 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  of  the  guilt  of  every  man  and 
woman  who  congregate  for  the  purpose  of  wantonly 
taking  human  life. 


55 


"CAPTAIN"  DAVID  HAWKINS 


HE    HAS    SHOWN    US   THE   VALUE    OF    SELF"DEFENSE 


To  the  Editor  of  "The  New  York  Age": 

As  a  soldier  the  Negro  has  proved  that  he  is  brave  even 
to  the  point  of  recklessness,  that  under  fire  he  is  a  stranger 
to  fear.  But  of  what  avail  is  this  wanton  disregard  for 
one's  own  life  in  the  defense  of  the  government?  Why 
make  the  world  wonder  at  San  Juan  to  be  hissed,  jeered  and 
even  fired  upon  by  the  ungrateful  people  of  a  country  whose 
honor  he  has  upheld?  Heroism  displayed  in  battle  is  not 
to  be  despised  or  discounted.  But  that  which  prompts  the 
laying  down  of  one's  life  in  times  of  peace  to  protect  his 
home  or  the  lives  of  his  wife  and  little  ones  is  of  more 
value.  With  every  weapon  taken  from  him  by  the  laws  of 
the  Southern  States  the  Negro  is  as  helpless  as  a  serf  in 
the  hands  of  mobs  who  need  only  a  pretext  to  tantalize, 
intimidate  and  murder  him.  But  the  Afro-American  people 
need  not  be  without  the  means  of  defence ;  every  cabin 
could  and  should  be  an  arsenal. 

To  this  appalling  situation  the  entire  race  seems  indiffer- 
ent; they  frolic,  they  drink,  they  dance  away  precious  time, 
and  when  danger  comes  the  only  weapons  they  have  with 
which  to  contend  with  rifles  are  brick-bats.  They  bring 
from  the  South  the  same  devil-may-care  spirit  and  in  sec- 
tions where  helplessness  is  less  excusable,  they  are  in  riot- 
ous times  at  the  mercy  of  "uncircumcised  dogs"  who  beat 
and  cuff  them  with  impunity. 

When  David  Hawkins,  double  banked  by  ruffians,  fired 
the  shot  which  precipitated  the  riots  in  South  Brooklyn  less 
than  two  years  ago,  as  is  usually  the  case,  we  were  un- 
stinting in  abuse  of  this  "bad  man."  But  David  Hawkins 
knows  that  the  "Golden  Rule"  is  not  to  be  applied  when 
dealing  with  Irish  thugs ;  hard  knocks  are  the  only  com- 

56 


modities  that  bring  respect.  Let  us  brevet  him  "Captain" 
Hawkins,  for  he  is  master  of  the  situation  in  Baltic  Street 
and  vicinity.  When  this  man  of  iron  left  the  court  room 
after  the  trial  of  rioters,  he  went  immediately  to  the  scene 
of  the  shooting  and  not  a  tough  assayed  to  molest  him. 
Since  that  time  assaults  upon  inoffensive  men  in  this  sec- 
tion have  been  frequent;  colored  men  being  knocked  down 
and  beaten  in  broad  daylight.  But  "Captain"  Hawkins 
moves  about  with  perfect  freedom.  "Captain"  Hawkins 
was  not  at  home  when  about  two  weeks  ago  two  white 
roughs  entered  Baltic  Street  and  in  front  of  his  door  beat 
a  fourteen-year-old  boy  into  insensibility  while  Negro  men 
looked  on  and  even  run  away.  "Captain"  Hawkins  was  not 
there,  or  there  would  have  been  a  far  different  tale  to  tell 
of  that  fracas.  It's  "an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth"  in  dealing  with  toughs. 

"JACK  THORNE." 
Brooklyn,  September  10,  1906. 


57 


PAUL  LAWRENCE  DUNBAR 


Written  When  it  Was  Rumored  the  Poet 
Had  But  a  Few  Days  to  Live. 


To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

Please  allow  me  a  word  in  eulogy  of  our  poet  Paul 
Lawrence,  now  slowly  dying-  at  his  home  in  Dayton,  Ohio. 
We  as  a  race  occupy  too  meagre  a  place  in  the  literary 
world  to  rightly  appreciate  his  genius  and  his  worth.  He 
soared  in  realms  ethereal,  too  lofty  for  us  to  reach.  It  was 
the  Saxon  who  saw  the  beauty  of  his  soul  and  placed  him 
on  high  that  the  world  might  hear  him  sing.  As  he  slowly 
fades  from  view  the  form  of  William  Dean  Howells  looms 
up  before  our  grateful  eyes,  but  for  whose  generous  pen 
our  flower  might  have  blossomed,  bloomed  and  faded  un- 
known. We  contributed  little  to  him  in  praise,  and  his 
yearnings  now  for  longer  life  that  he  might  do  more  for 
his  race,  makes  him  seem  like  the  swan  which  sings  its 
sweetest  song  when  dying.  Oh,  Autumn  winds,  touch 
gently  the  fading  cheeks  of  our  bard,  whose  frailties  we 
would  not  draw  from  their  dread  abode,  but  would  pray  that 
the  peace  which  passeth  understanding  might  be  his  in  this 
his  hour  of  reflection.  We,  as  a  race,  environed  by  the 
stern  and  cruel,  have  had  but  little  time  to  dream  of  the 
beautiful  as  we  wrestled  with  monsters  strong  and  relent- 
less. Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar  took  time  to  listen  to  the  rip- 
pling of  the  rills,  the  murmur  of  the  brooks,  the  songs  of 
the  birds.  Some  of  us,  in  our  strong  love  for  the  race  and 
in  our  zeal  for  their  welfare,  have  waged  war  to  the  knife, 
knife  to  the  hilt,  far  beyond  the  skirmish  line.  Dunbar 
chose  to  sing  that  the  skeptical  might  look  behind  the  ebony 

58 


exterior  and  see  there  the  sweet,  loving  and  forgiving  heart. 
Such  is  true  Negro  character,  to  be  able  to  sing  even  in 
chains.  By  this  he  has  puzzled  the  dominant  and  awed  the 
oppressor.  Up  from  the  slave  plantation,  floating  on  the 
balmy  air,  perfumed  by  the  waving  corn,  "Swing  low, 
sweet  chariot,"  rises  above  the  oaths  of  the  driver  and  re- 
laxes his  hold  upon  the  whip.  No  Greek  nor  barbarian  in 
captivity  has  been  able  to  retain  such  sweetness  of  soul.  If 
ever  we  needed  our  Dunbar,  it  is  now,  for  the  war  is  wax- 
ing harder,  and  we  need  such  as  he  to  bear  away  the 
wounded,  cover  up  the  dead  and  hold  the  cross  before  the 
eyes  of  the  dying.  Robert  Burns  entered  into  immortality 
at  38,  having  raised  to  himself  an  imperishable  monument. 
Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar  at  32,  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies 
and  drew  an  angel  down.  Now  that  star,  just  in  its  zenith, 
flickers  and  flickers  and  is  going  out;  and  we  see  not  an- 
other rising  to  take  its  place.    Dying !   Dying !  Dying ! 

"Oh  wind  of  the  winter  sigh  low  in  my  grief, 

I  bear  thy  compassionate  breath ; 
I  wither,  I  fall,  like  the  Autumn  kissed  leaf, 

He  gave  me  the  roses  of  death,  of  death, 

He  gave  me  the  roses  of  death." 

Brooklyn,  Sept.  28,  1904. 


59 


IN  MEMORIAM 


Adaline  Leonard. 

To  the  Editor  of  "The  Standard  Union" : 
Some  poet  has  said 

"There  is  no  death;  the  stars  go  down, 

To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore; 
And  bright  in  heaven's  jeweled  crown, 

They  shine  forever  more." 

"That  which  we  call  death  is  but  the  entrance  into  newer 
life,  a  life  of  real  beauty,  filled  with  joy  unspeakable." 

Without  comment  upon  the  above  theory,  or  the  multi- 
tude of  others  of  what  death  is  to  the  individual,  let  me 
say  I  believe  that  death  is  the  great  consoler,  that  ends 
every  sigh;  brings  to  an  end  all  pain  and  suffering,  for 
"There  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  be 
at  rest."  The  youthful  days  of  Adaline  Leonard  were  past 
when  I  first  met  her.  She  was  a  woman  in  the  prime  of 
life,  vigorous  and  full  of  womanly  grace  and  beauty. 
There  was  genuine  zeal  in  every  one  of  the  many  efforts  she 
put  forth  for  the  uplift  of  her  people,  whether  in  the  school 
room  or  in  the  church,  or  whereever  she  was  called  upon 
to  lend  a  hand.  With  a  comfortable  home  and  the  pun- 
shine  that  beamed  forth  from  every  brown  eye  which  greet- 
ed her  each  morning  as  she  entered  the  school  room,  to 
Adaline  Leonard  doubtless  life  was  most  desirable.  But 
there  came  a  time  in  that  checkered  life  just  closed  when 
even  the  morning  greetings  of  loved  ones  did  not  comfort 
and  gladden,  for  the  sunshine  had  gone  out  from  that  once 
sunny  home  and  left  it  real  dark.  We  have  watched  the 
glow  slowly  fade  from  cheeks  flushed  and  ruddy ;  the  vigor- 
ous and  elastic  step  slow  and  unsteady,  and  eyes  once  clear 

60 


and  bright  scarcely  able  to  discern  even  faces  familiar. 
Forlorn,  disappointed,  although  she  never  spoke  of  weari- 
ness, she  doubtless  many  times  wished  for  the  rest  that  has 
come  to  her  now.  Although  for  seventeen  years  I  have 
watched  the  going  and  coming  of  Adaline  Leonard,  I  can- 
not fittingly  eulogize  her  nor  record  her  many  virtues.  Let 
older  acquaintances,  and  the  children  who  learned  at  her 
knee,  some  now  grown  to  manhood  and  womanhood,  stand 
by  the  bier  and  tell  fully  the  story  of  her  life,  her  virtues, 
her  trials,  her  sacrifices.  So  familiar  has  been  her  slight 
figure  slowly  moving  back  and  forth  to  and  from  her  duties 
through  Fulton  Street,  that  it  seems  I  must  see  her  still, 
at  all  times  ready  to  pause  for  a  chat,  and  to  involuntarily 
sigh  and  speak  of  the  "Gabriel,"  who  on  one  sad  day  went 
out  from  their  home  and  left  it  real  desolate.  The  hopeless 
paralytic  in  the  hospital  ward  will  listen  in  vain  now  for  the 
comfort  of  her  ministering  hand,  the  soft  tread  of  her 
weary  feet,  her  patient  indulgence,  her  soothing,  cheering 
words,  for  at  length  her  trials  are  ended. 

6 1  Fleet  Street. 
Brooklyn,  Feb.  22nd,  1906. 


61 


TRIBUTE  TO  THE  LATE  EDWIN  F.  SEE 
[General  Secretary  of  the  Brooklyn  Y.  M.  C.  A.] 


To  the  Editor  of  "The  Brooklyn  Eagle" : 

Allow  me  space  for  a  few  words  of  eulogy  of  the  late 
Edwin  F.  See,  general  Secretary  of  the  Brooklyn  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association.  An  employee  of  the  Central 
Branch  for  nearly  four  years,  I  had  an  opportunity  to  see 
a  good  deal  of  this  eminent  Christian  man.  While  it  is 
true  that  in  his  official  capacity  he  moved  in  a  sphere  above 
mine,  it  did  not  prevent  me  from  studying  his  character  and 
noting  his  many  noble  traits.  Exacting  and  rigid  in  his 
requirements  of  those  under  his  direction  as  general  secre- 
tary of  that  great  institution,  Edwin  F.  See  was  indeed  a 
pattern  for  those  about  him  of  whom  he  expected  honest 
and  trustworthy  performance  of  duty.  To  subordinates,  he 
was  never  demonstrative  nor  gushing,  neither  was  he  conde- 
scending, but  met  his  fellow  men  regardless  of  station  with 
a  cordiality  that  was  honest  and  sincere. 

During  the  fall  and  winter  of  1905  it  was  my  privilege  to 
greet  him  each  morning  as  he  came  into  the  building,  and 
to  painfully  note  the  slow-fading  cheeks,  the  slow  and  un- 
certain tread  which  betokened  the  approaching  end  of  his 
useful  career.  But  Edwin  F.  See,  as  he  neared  the  Pearly 
Gates,  did  not  go  thither  as  one  tired  of  life.  He  doubtless 
longed  for  a  longer  stay  here,  for  surely  there  were  home 
ties  and  the  companionship  of  friends  which  made  life  here 
desirable.  The  beauties  of  the  world  are  for  the  upright  in 
heart,  and  to  wish  to  die  is  unwise.  And  then  again,  there 
were  tasks  in  the  great  field  of  Christian  labor  that  he  must 
leave  unfinished — more  young  men  to  counsel,  more  strug- 
gling branches  to  help  and  encourage.  The  rose,  blushing 
in  the  morning  dew,  does  not  long  for  the  noon-day  sun  that 
will  blast  its  petals  and  thus  take  away  its  power  to  charm. 

62 


Edwin  F.  See  will  be  especially  missed  at  502  Fulton  Street, 
where  most  of  his  life  as  a  Christian  worker  was  spent,  for 
"his  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements  so  mixed  in  him  that 
nature  might  stand  up  and  say  to  all  the  world  'this  was  a 
man'." 

Brooklyn,  Aug.  2.7,  1906. 


Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  July  30th,  1906. 
Mr.  David  B.  Fulton, 
Dear  Sir: 

I  must  thank  you  for  your  beautiful  tribute  to  our 
dear  Mr.  See  in  Saturday's  Eagle.  What  you  observed  of 
his  noble  Christian  manliness  for  four  years  I  witnessed  for 
seventeen  years,  and  it  was  always  just  as  you  picture  it. 
He  was  a  man ! 

Sincerely  yours, 

H.  C.  SIMMONS, 

Acting  General  Secretary. 
502  Fulton  Street 


63 


IN  MEMORIAM 


Kate  S.  Harris 


FROM    THE   COLD   AM.    MAGAZINE 

I  would  not  call  thee  to  earth  again, 
With  its  fitful  fever,  its  toils  and  pain; 
Thy  bark  hast  sailed  for  the  Golden  West; 
It  hath  reached  the  haven  of  eternal  rest. 
Yet,  it  would  have  been  most  sweet  to  me, 
To  have  said  Good  Bye  ere  you  put  to  sea; 
Ere  the  summons  came  "Arise,  depart, 
For  this  is  not  your  rest,  True  Heart." 

One  who  knew  of  thy  Christian  grace, 
Fain  would  have  gazed  on  thy  silent  face ; 
With  the  weeping  mourners  beside  the  beir, 
To  shed  with  them  regretful  tear. 
Although  I  heard  not  the  deep  drawn  sigh, 
From  the  sorely  bereft  as  they  passed  me  by, 
Thy  motherly  counsel,  thy  life  so  pure, 
Shall  live  with  me  as  the  hills  endure. 

Some  day  when  my  bark  hath  run  its  race, 
I  shall  meet  thee  dear  One  face  to  face, 
On  the  shore  of  the  beautiful  Jasper  Sea, 
Where  there'll  be  no  tears  for  thee  and  me; 
No  sever'd  friendships,  dissembling  foes, 
And  no  sin  to  mar  that  sweet  repose. 
Till  then,  Farewell,  Oh  richly  blest! 
Thy  work  is  ended :  Enjoy  thy  rest. 


64 


HENRY  BERRY  LOWERY,  THE  NORTH  CARO- 
LINA OUTLAW 


From  The  Citizen. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION   PERIOD 


In  Robeson  County,  North  Carolina,  on  the  old  Carolina 
Central  Railroad,  which  connects  the  seaboard  with  the 
interior,  within  forty  miles  of  Wilmington,  the  metropolis, 
and  in  close  proximity  to  Lumberton,  nestling  among  the 
sand  hills,  there  is  a  straggling  little  village  known  for  many 
years  before  the  war  as  "Scuffle  Town."  The  hamlet  doubt- 
less derived  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it  was  a  free  negro 
settlement.  In  many  Southern  States  the  free  colored  man, 
shorn  of  the  protection  of  a  master,  in  many  instances  the 
object  of  suspicion  in  whom  the  slave-holder  saw  possible,  if 
not  probable,  uprisings  and  massacres,  was  often  looked 
down  upon  by  the  slave  who  under  the  protection  of  a 
master  considered  himself  better  off.  Although  many  free 
negroes  in  North  Carolina,  who  purchased  their  freedom 
by  their  own  thrift  and  industry,  lived  in  an  enviable  sphere, 
the  shiftless  among  them  were  often  referred  to  by  the 
slaves  as  "scuffling  along."  Hence  the  name  Scuffle  Town. 
Insignificant  as  this  obscure  little  hamlet  may  appear  to  the 
stranger  with  its  old  decayed  dwellings,  its  neglected  streets, 
its  uneven  rows  of  cabins,  Scuffle  Town  less  than  forty 
years  ago  was  the  theater  of  some  of  the  most  exciting 
events,  the  most  blood-curdling  tragedies  ever  recorded  in 
the  history  of  the  old  North  State.  For  this  little  hamlet 
was  the  home  of  the  octoroon  outlaw  Henry  Berry  Lowery, 
who,  with  his  band  of  bloodthirsty  desperadoes,  kept  the 
entire  State  in  terror  and  the  eyes  of  the  whole  country 
settled  upon  Robeson  County  for  quite  a  number  of  years. 
Those  of  us  who  are  familiar  with  the  history  of  Frank  and 
Jesse  James,  who  led  that  band  of  outlaws  that  kept  the 
West  so  long  in  terror  by  their  murders,  train  robberies  and 
other  crimes,  have  doubtless  heard  little  or  nothing  of  this 

65 


man  who  during  the  same  period  and  actuated  by  the  same 
grievances  terrorized  North  Carolina. 

Just  as  the  name  of  Jesse  James  sent  an  involuntary  shud- 
der through  the  souls  of  those  who  heard  it,  although  far  re- 
moved from  the  scene  of  his  depredations,  so  did  the  name 
of  Henry  Berry  Lowery  awe  and  terrorize  in  North 
Carolina. 

Lowery  and  his  intrepid  freebooters  were  all  colored  men. 
The  James  boys  and  their  followers  were  armed  with  the 
most  improved  firearms  of  that  day;  with  the  exception  of 
the  carbine  carried  by  Lowery  himself,  taken  from  a 
Mexican  who  attempted  to  capture  him,  the  only  weapons 
these  men  had  were  knives  and  double-barreled  shotguns. 
Although  free  colored  people  in  the  South  could  not  vote,  in 
some  States  they  could  own  property  and  many  of  them 
owned  slaves..  These  ScufBer  Towners,  an  admixture  of 
Saxon,  Indian  and  negro,  kept  aloft  from  the  blacks,  and 
like  Santo  Domingans,  nursed  a  feeling  of  hostility  to- 
wards the  whites.  In  many  instances  during  the  Civil  War 
free  mulattoes  sympathized  with  and  cast  in  their  lot 
with  the  Confederates;  in  Louisiana  colored  people  of 
means  gave  largely  of  their  wealth  to  assist  the 
Southern  cause.  But  they  were  not  considered  as  desir- 
able fighting  material  until  the  secessionists  saw  defeat 
staring  them  in  the  face.  Then  every  available  man  was 
pressed  into  service,  the  free  negro  having  the  first  con- 
sideration. The  elder  Lowery,  the  leader  and  adviser 
of  his  people,  and  who  had  been  outspoken  in  his  con- 
demnation of  the  South's  attitude  in  the  awful  controversy, 
advised  his  people  not  to  assist  in  the  fight  for  the  perpetua- 
tion of  slavery.  But  the  whites,  feeling  it  their  right  to 
draft  into  the  service  whom  they  willed,  invaded  this  free 
negro  settlement  and  shot  to  death  those  who  resisted  them, 
and  among  the  killed  was  the  elder  Lowery.  Henry,  then 
quite  a  young  man,  was  an  eye  witness  to  the  death  of  his 
parent.  Standing  over  the  grave  of  his  slain  father  he 
swore  never  to  rest  until  every  man  who  participated  in  that 
dreadful  tragedy  paid  the  penalty  with  his  life.  Those 
who  recall  that  dark  period  in  Robeson  County  immediately 
following  the  surrender,  remember  how  well  that  vow  was 

66 


kept.  The  war  had  ended,  the  defeated  rebel  had  returned 
and  the  death  of  Lowery  the  elder  was  almost  forgotten, 
when  one  day  a  prominent  citizen  of  Robeson,  riding  along 
the  plank  road  leading  from  Lumberton  to  Scuffle  Town, 
suddenly  threw  up  his  hands  and  fell  from  his  buggy,  shot 
through  the  heart.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the  work  of 
vengeance.  The  death  of  this  man,  who  was  a  recruiting 
officer  at  the  time  the  negro  stronghold  was  invaded,  re- 
called to  every  mind  the  tragedy  and  young  Lowery's  vow. 
The  whites  of  Lumberton  and  vicinity  arose,  invaded  Scuffle 
Town  and  attempted  to  hunt  down  the  murderer.  But 
Lowery,  who  had  laid  his  plans  well  before  beginning  his 
work  of  vengeance,  had  made  for  himself  a  secure  hiding 
place  in  the  fastness  of  the  great  Dismal  Swamp;  and  the 
sympathy  and  loyalty  of  his  people  who  were  ready  to  die 
rather  than  betray  him  made  his  stronghold  impregnable. 
The  killing  of  three  other  men  within  less  than  three 
months  after  the  first  tragedy  threw  the  entire  State  into  a 
panic  and  large  rewards  were  offered  for  the  capture  of  the 
murderers  dead  or  alive.  Raids  by  bands  of  armed  men 
upon  the  negro  settlement  became  frequent  and  innocent 
men  and  women  were  in  many  instances  beaten  and  killed 
by  the  man  hunters,  chagrined  by  their  futile  attempts  to 
locate  the  outlaw  and  the  stubborn  refusal  of  his  friends  to 
reveal  his  hiding  place.  These  cruel  assaults  upon  the  little 
town  won  to  Lowery  more  friends  and  sympathizers ;  des- 
perate characters  began  to  flock  to  his  standard  until  his 
band  numbered  twenty-five  or  more  of  as  reckless  dare- 
devils and  cutthroats  as  ever  trod  the  soil  of  any  country. 
Foremost  among  these  were  Stephen  Lowery,  brother  to 
Henry,  and  far  more  cruel,  relentless  and  bloodthirsty; 
George  Applewhite  and  "Boss"  Strong.  Murders  became 
more  frequent  and  train  holdups  and  highway  robberies 
were  added  to  the  list  of  crimes  which  intensified  the  feel- 
ing of  dread  and  insecurity  throughout  the  State.  Offers  of 
large  rewards  for  the  capture  of  the  outlaws  brought  about 
more  strenuous  efforts  to  capture  them,  but  they  evaded  the 
authorities  for  many  years.  Many  stories  became  current 
concerning  the  charmed  life  of  Henry  Berry  Lowery.  It 
was  averred  that  he  was  known  to  appear  on  trains  run- 

67 


ning  at  the  highest  speed  and  to  reveal  his  identity  to  awe- 
stricken  passengers  and  trainmen,  and  then  disappear  as 
mysteriously  as  he  appeared.  Another  tale  was  that,  meet- 
ing a  squad  of  soldiers  on  the  highway  one  day  and  re- 
vealing his  identity  so  disconcerted  and  demoralized  them 
that  they  could  not  capture  him.  One  night,  carousing  in 
the  village,  a  raid  was  made  upon  them  by  constables  and 
George  Applewhite,  together  with  a  woman,  supposed  to 
be  Henry's  wife,  were  captured  and  taken  to  the  Wilming- 
ton jail.  The  outlaw  leader  had,  however,  gained  such  a 
reputation  for  recklessness  and  bravery  that  a  threat  to 
enter  Wilmington  and  burn  it  so  terrorized  the  citizens  that 
the  captives  were  released.  A  Mexican,  tempted  by  the  large 
reward  offered  for  the  capture  of  the  outlaws,  visited  Lum- 
berton  and  boasted  to  the  authorities  there  that  he  would 
run  down  and  capture  the  leader  and  disperse  the  des- 
peradoes within  a  very  short  time.  He  strutted  about  the 
streets  of  Lumberton  for  a  day  or  two,  dressed  in  his  showy 
native  costume,  and  to  show  his  bravery  entered  Scuffle 
Town  itself,  and  for  a  while  chatted  freely  with  the  natives. 
Then  he  disappeared  into  the  swamp,  where  he  built  himself 
a  cabin  and  remained  in  hiding  during  the  day  and  strolled 
about  at  night  in  disguise. 

But  in  less  time  than  he  had  boasted  to  capture  the  out- 
law, Henry  Berry  Lowery  himself  walked  into  his  cabin, 
told  him  it  was  surrounded  and  that  there  was  no  alternative 
but  surrender.  The  Mexican  was  bound  and  escorted  to  the 
outlaw  camp  and  told  to  write  a  farewell  letter  to  his  family. 
The  Mexican  complied  and  then  waited  calmly  for  his 
execution.  But  they  kept  him  in  suspense  until  he  wearily 
begged  the  outlaws  to  do  what  they  intended  doing  and 
have  done  with  it.  But  bloody  as  had  been  the  career  of 
this  bold  and  fearless  outlaw,  he  could  not  do  the  deed  nor 
give  the  order.  Seeing  their  leader  melt,  all  of  his  follow- 
ers weakened  except  Stephen  Lowery,  his  brother,  who  with 
an  oath  said  to  the  Mexican,  'Say  your  prayers  and  stand 
out;  I'll  kill  you."  The  man  complied,  stepped  out  a  few 
paces  and  dropped  dead.  Then  a  reporter  for  a  certain 
great  New  York  daily  newspaper  contrived  to  enter  the 
stronghold  of  the  famous  North  Carolina  outlaws  in  order 

68 


to  glean  from  the  lips  of  Lowery  himself  the  story  of  his 
uprising.  Hazardous  undertaking,  but  it  was  successful. 
The  reporter  having  forwarded  a  letter  that  he  was  com- 
ing, was  met  at  a  small  railroad  station  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  outlaw  camp,  there  blindfolded  and  taken  to  their  hiding 
place  in  the  fastness  of  the  Dismal  Swamp.  And  there  from 
the  lips  of  the  leader  himself  he  heard  the  story  of  the 
causes  which  led  to  the  great  feud  during  which  a  score  or 
more  of  people  had  been  killed,  most  of  whom  had  been  im- 
plicated in  the  murder  of  his  father.  But  the  only  wrong 
thing  the  outlaw  conceeded  his  men  had  done  was  to  kill  an 
old  defenceless  man  solely  for  the  purpose  of  robbery.  At 
the  conclusion  of  the  interview  the  visitor  was  again  blind- 
folded and  escorted  to  the  village,  the  outlaws  not  permit- 
ting him  to  open  his  eyes  until  the  railway  station  was 
reached.  Following  the  reporters  return  to  New  York  a 
glowing  story  of  the  Lowery  feud  was  published  with  a 
flattering  description  of  the  handsome  octoroon  outlaw  and 
the  history  and  customs  of  his  peculiar  people. 

The  career  of  Jesse  James  was  brought  to  a  sudden  termi- 
nation by  a  bullet  in  the  back  of  his  head  from  a  revolver 
in  the  hands  of  a  supposed  friend.  Frank  James  has  for 
many  years  been  a  peaceful  citizen.  Those  of  the  fol- 
lowers of  these  two  daring  outlaws  who  were  not  killed  off 
have  served  and  are  serving  long  terms  in  various  prisons 
throughout  the  country.  The  State  authorities  of  North 
Carolina  having  utterly  failed  to  effect  the  capture  of  Low- 
ery and  break  up  his  stronghold,  for  many  months  after  the 
release  of  George  Applewhite  from  Wilmington  jail  all 
attempts  to  capture  the  outlaws  were  apparently  abandoned. 
Excepting  Henrv  Berry  Lowery  himself,  who  was  ever 
cautious  and  wary,  the  outlaws  with  their  many  friends  en- 
joyed the  freedom  of  their  native  town  where  they  met  to 
divide  the  spoils  from  train  holdups  and  robberies.  Stephen 
Lowery  was  a  banjo  player,  and  often  his  love  for  music 
and  whiskey  had  cost  his  comrades  many  serious  encounters 
and  hairbreadth  escapes,  and  in  their  flight  for  safety,  very 
frequently  Stephen  had  to  be  taken  up  bodily  by  his  com- 
panions and  carried.  In  the  back  woods  of  North  Carolina, 
upon  the  old  county  roads,  journeying  from  settlement  to 

69 


settlement,  can  still  be  seen  the  quaint  old  white-covered, 
sway-backed  wagon  of  the  "trader."     After  the  breaking 
out  of  the  Lowery  feud  traders  evaded  Scuffle  Town  and 
vicinity,  but  the  tempting  prizes  offered   for  the  capture 
of  the  outlaws  often  during  that  long  season   of  terror 
caused    the    more    venturesome   ones  to  pause   upon  the 
village  streets  to  trade  and  run  the  risk  of  being  killed 
and    robbed.      One    day    as    Stephen    Lowery    sat    half 
drunk   by   the   roadside   on   the   outskirts    of   the   village, 
slowly  running  his  fingers  over  the  strings  of  his  banjo, 
a  trader's  wagon  in  passing  paused  and  one  of  the  oc- 
cupants  engaged  him   in  conversation.     "Fine  banjer   yo 
got  thar,"  said  the  trader.    "Straight'n  up,  ol'  man,  an'  giv' 
us  a  tune ;  I  know  yo'  kin  do  it."     Stephen,  flattered  by  the 
compliment,  assayed  to  comply.     A  shot  rang  out  and  the 
bandit  fell  over  dead.    Two  men  jumped  out,  severed  Ste- 
phen's head  from  the  trunk  and  hastened  away.     The  next 
victim  of  this  feeling  of  security  was  Boss  Strong;  he  was 
shot  through  a  crack  in  the  wall  of  a  house  one  night  while 
lying  on  his  back  playing  a  jewsharp  during  a  frolic.     But 
the  murderers  failed  to  get  his  body,  which  was  immediately 
removed  by  his  friends  and  all  traces  of  the  murder  cleared 
away.  Of  all  this  band  of  over  twenty-five  outlaws  none  was 
captured  and  but  few  were  killed.    While  the  feud  was  on 
they  were  relentless  and  cruel  in  their  treatment  of  enemies. 
But  when  the  last  person  under  suspicion  of  having  part  in 
the  death  of  the  elder  Lowery  had  been  killed  off,  the  au- 
thorities had  ceased  to  harass  them  and  their  leader  had 
called  off  the  feud,  as  calmly  and  as  peaceful  as  lambs  they 
returned  to  their  farms.    George  Applewhite,  whose  reputa- 
tion for  daring  was  far  worse  than  that  of  Lowery  him- 
self, finally  surrendered  to  the  authorities  of  his  State,  and 
has  for  many  years  been  a  peaceful  citizen  of  Goldsboro. 
But  the  fate  of  the  undaunted  leader  himself  remains  a 
mystery  to  this  day.     Among  the  many  stories  of  his  fate 
is  the  one  in  which  it  is  alleged  that  he  had  himself  stored 
away  in  a  tool  chest  in  which  he  was  shipped  West,  where 
he  joined  the  army.    On  visiting  Scuffle  Town  a  few  years 
ago  I  found  it  still  a  settlement  of  Ishmaelites  with  their 
fists  shut  against  the  outside  world,  cherishing  the  old  aver- 

70 


sion  for  social  mingling  or  intermarriage  with  blacks.  I 
found  them  open  to  social  chats,  however,  the  grandson  of 
one  of  the  outlaws  furnishing  the  material  for  the  foregoing 
story.  Some  of  the  men  who  two  decades  ago  thought 
nothing  of  snufing  out  the  lives  of  their  fellows  are  to-day 
grizzled  old  law-abiding  citizens,  their  faces  the  index  of 
genuine  piety.  Still  men  tremble  as  they  recall  that  awful 
bloody  period  in  the  history  of  Robeson  County  and  speak 
the  name  of  Henry  Berry  Lowery  with  bated  breath. 


71 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  SKY 
A  Pullman  Porter's  Story 


At  Morristown,  Tenn.,  on  the  East  Tennessee,  Virginia 
and  Georgia  Railroad,  a  branch  of  the  road  leads  out  from 
the  main  line.  This  road  connects  the  East  Tennessee  trains 
with  those  of  "The  Western  North  Carolina,"  a  tributary 
of  the  Richmond  and  Danville  road,  which  runs  through  the 
little  city  of  Asheville,  N.  C.  Often,  on  reaching  Morris- 
town,  on  my  way  to  and  from  Memphis  and  other  South- 
ern cities,  has  a  desire  taken  possession  of  me  to  visit  Ash- 
ville,  and,  if  possible,  find  a  friend  of  my  early  youth,  who 
had  entered  the  little  city  many  years  ago,  changed  her  name 
and  hidden  away  somewhere  among  those  beautiful  hills. 
One  day  a  change  of  trains  at  Knoxville,  Tenn.,  gave  me  the 
long-wished-for  opportunity  of  at  least  a  trip  through  Ash- 
ville  and  a  view  of  the  entrancingly  beautiful  scenery  sur- 
rounding it.  But  it's  only  the  name  upon  the  humble  little 
station  and  the  babel  created  by  the  anxious  'bus  drivers 
from  the  many  hotels  and  boarding  houses  this  thrifty  little 
city  affords  that  apprises  one  of  his  arrival  at  Asheville, 
which  lies  hidden  behind  the  hills  some  distance  from  the 
depot.  The  first  time  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a  "lay-over" 
and  a  visit  to  the  city  proper  was  at  the  time  of  year  when 
constant  rains  make  travel  in  that  section  of  country  exceed- 
ingly difficult  and  unpleasant.  The  vehicle  in  which  I  took 
my  journey  alternately  plunged  to  the  hubs  in  mire  and 
stumbled  over  huge  stones.  On  alighting  at  the  town  hall 
I  learned  that  she  whom  I  sought  lived  at  Biltmore,  a  neigh- 
boring village,  and  that  to  reach  her  would  require  another 
journey  on  foot.  But  the  road  led  through  a  region  so 
enchanting,  so  picturesque  that  fatigue  was  forgotten.  I 
found  my  old  friend  in  a  lovely  suburban  home,  surrounded 
by  a  goodly  portion  of  this  world's  goods  and  destined  to 

72 


live  long  like  the  eagle,  because,  far  from  contagions's  con- 
tamination, she  was  breathing  in  the  pure  air  of  the  moun- 
tains. The  following  morning  together  we  climbed  to  a 
neighboring  peak,  and  it  was  from  this  eminence  that  I  saw 
Ashville  in  its  beauty.  Although  the  city  is  upon  a  hill,  we 
were  so  far  above  it  that  it  appeared  to  be  in  a  faraway 
valley.  Black  Mountain,  looming  up  majestically  in  the 
distance,  and  "Pisgah,"  smiling  at  the  rising  sun,  made  the 
scenery  surrounding  Asheville  like  that  of  the  Yosemite 
Valley.  Looking  northward,  we  saw  a  pillar  of  white 
smoke  rise  from  behind  the  trees  away  up  the  mountain 
side,  followed  by  the  faint  sound  of  an  engine's  whistle,  and 
then  a  tiny  train  of  cars  moved  slowly  down  the  mountain 
path  towards  the  city  to  wake  the  sleeping  inhabitants  who, 
on  that  early  summer  morning,  had  not  begun  to  stir.  As 
we  stood  there  gazing  upon  the  beautiful  panorama,  the 
"Song  of  The  Mountaineers"  came  to  my  mind: 

For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee,  our  God,  our 

fathers'  God, 
Thou  hast  made  thy  children  mighty  by  a  touch  of  the 

mountain  sod; 
Thou  hast  fixed  our  ark  of  refuge  where  the  spoilers'  feet 

ne'r  trod: 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee,  our  God,  our 

fathers'  God. 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon  whose  light  can  never  die ; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  alter  mid  the  silence  of  the  sky. 
The  rocks  yield  founts    of    courage    struck    forth    as    by 

thy  rod: 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee,  our  God,  our 

fathers'  God. 

The  congeniality  of  this  section  of  North  Carolina  has 
not  only  caused  it  to  be  held  in  high  repute  among  North- 
ern and  Western  people  as  a  desirable  health  resort,  but 
also  made  it  a  permanent  dwelling  place  for  that  class  of 
inhabitants  whose  thrift  and  capital  have  transformed  Ashe- 
ville and  advanced  it  far  ahead  of  other  communities  in  the 
Old  North  State  and  given  it  an  air  of  envious  respecta- 
bility.    But  the  pomp  and  grandeur  displayed  by  inhabit- 

73 


ants  of  wealth  and  means  cannot  entirely  conceal  the  fact 
that  the  slothful  native  is  a  potent  factor  in  making  the  city 
of  Asheville  cosmopolitan.  In  striking  contrast  with  stylish 
traps,  gowns,  well-groomed  horses  and  glistening  livery, 
is  the  ancient  beast  of  the  burden,  the  ox,  hitched  to  its  two- 
wheeled  cart,  slowly  plodding  its  way  through  the  busy 
streets,  while  the  driver,  unmindful  of  the  noise  and  bustle 
of  progress  about  him,  sleeps  serenely  upon  his  load.  More 
interesting  to  me  than  Asheville's  phenomenal  growth  and 
beauty  are  these,  the  original  inhabitants  of  western  North 
Carolina  and  east  Tennessee — the  lean  and  lank  mountain- 
eers. Doubtless  it  was  the  loftiness  of  their  habitation,  their 
nearness  to  things  heavenly,  that  sharpened  their  sense  of 
right  and  gave  them  the  courage  to  take  a  stand  for  the 
right  during  that  period  in  the  Nation's  history  which  tried 
men's  souls.  They  did  not  believe  that  any  good  would 
come  out  of  rebellion  against  the  Union,  and  no  amount  of 
Southern  oratory  or  buldozing  could  change  them,  and  in 
this  they  have  remained  steadfast  until  this  day.  Unlike  the 
frank  and  hospitable  Southerner  of  the  plains,  the  moun- 
taineer is  not  quick  to  scrape  acquaintance;  but  after  much 
shying,  beating  about  the  bush  and  catechising  a  stranger 
he  finds  him  all  right,  that  he's  not  "er  revanoo  varmint, 
tryin'  ter  sic  th'  guvmint  on  fo'ks  whoser  pesterin'  no  one 
but  jist  er  mindin'  ther  own  bizness,"  he  goes  the  lowlander 
one  better  in  the  copiousness  of  his  hospitality.  To  the 
mountaineer  the  "makin'  of  'mount'n  dew'  out'n  his  own 
co'n"  is  more  profitable  than  "tot'n  hit  toer  th'  mill ;"  and  as 
he  insists  upon  the  illicit  manufacture  of  it,  every  stranger 
who  happens  around  is  "er  revanoo  officer"  and  is  in  im- 
minent danger  until  he  proves  himself  otherwise. 

One  afternoon  at  "Paint  Rock"  I  sauntered  across  an  old 
bridge  that  spanned  the  French  Broad  River  and  followed  a 
zig-zag  road  which  climbed  the  hill  to  the  northward.  I 
had  gone  about  half  a  mile  when  I  came  upon  a  yoke  of 
oxen,  hitched  to  a  cart  standing  by  the  roadside.  The 
driver,  who  had  alighted  and  gone  some  distance  into  a 
dense  thicket  was  cutting  a  twig  from  a  small  sapling  when 
I  came  up.  He  paused  when  he  saw  me,  and  letting  the 
bush  he  had  bent,  fly  upright,  came  slowly  up  to  where  I 

74 


stood,  whittling  the  end  of  the  twig.  "Howdy,"  he  said, 
eyeing  me  up  and  down ;  then  going  over  to  where  the  oxen 
stood,  he  began  adjusting  the  bow  that  encircled  one  of 
their  necks.  "Whut  mout  yer  be  look'n  fer  in  these  parts?" 
he  continued,  stroking  the  necks  of  his  team.  "Oh,  nothing 
particular,"  I  answered,  "simply  walking  for  exercise."  He 
jerked  his  head  up  quickly,  momentarily  stared  at  me, 
grunted,  and  resumed  the  inspection  of  his  team. 

"The  scenery  is  quite  lovely  around  here." 

"Eny  body  owe  yo'  roun'  er  bout  here?" 

"Did  I  say  so?"  I  returned  rather  warmly. 

"Why,  laws  honey,  sence  MaKinlay  an'  Hanner's  bin  er 
runnin'  this  guvmint  eny  thing's  likely  ter  hap'n,  wunders 
never  heered  of  afore;  an'  we  uns  wont  be  tuk  wi'  surprise 
ter  see  er  nigger  revinooman  er  look'n  fer  trouble  an'  er 
pokin'  his  nose  in  whar  yaller  fever  an'  measles  is  er  ragin'. 
Thars  nuthin'  new  under  th'  sun." 

I  had  just  begun  to  understand  this  fellow's  strange  con- 
duct and  language;  he  suspected  that  I  was  either  a  Gov- 
ernment officer  or  a  spy,  looking  for  moonshiners. 

"I've  seed  but  one  nigger  guvmint  man  in  my  life,"  he 
went  on,  eyeing  me  curiously,  "an'  he  wus  eh  sharp  un ; 
layed  eroun  heer  amongst  we  uns,  grinned  his  way  in  her 
our  erfairs — ev'n  hepp'd  sum  uv  us  ter  mak'  th'  stuff  an' 
git  shed'n  it — tell  one  day  er  white  guvmint  varmint  cum 
er  long  an'  led  er  few  er  we  uns  down  ter  th'  village  an' 
sum  er  thim  er  stil  break'n  rock  at  Columbus.  But  that's 
bin  er  long  time  ergo,  an'  that  nigger's  carkis  is  gone  back 
ter  muther  dus' ;  fer  es  strong  es  th'  law  wus  hit  could'nt 
save  'im." 

There  was  a  triumphant  twinkle  in  his  eyes  turned  upon 
me  at  the  conclusion  of  these  remarks  to  note  the  effect  of 
his  words,  but  I  betrayed  no  uneasiness. 

"Well,"  I  replied,  with  unassumed  good  nature,  "I  hap- 
pen to  be  only  an  ordinary  working  man,  a  sleeping  car 
porter,  and  my  car  is  just  below  here  at  Paint  Rock." 

"Tew  be  sho,"  he  returned  curtly,  readjusting  his  line 
preparatory  to  resuming  his  journey,  "tother  feller  wus  er 
skool  teacher,  preacher,  too.  Yo'  orter  heered  him  et  big 
meet'n  time.    Th'  las'  sermon  I  ever  heered  him  preach  wus 

75 


et  one  er  them  big  meet'ns  an'  his  tex  wus  'Draw  in  th' 
wunderins  uv  yer  mine  an'  git  ter  hankerin'  arter  truth.' 
He  wus  er  hankerin'  arter  truth  an'  th'  truth  killed  him. 
Yo'  know  the  Scripter  tells  yer  ef  th'  truth  kills  yer  yo' 
mus'  die  th'  deth.  I'm  kinder  rusty  on  Bible  talk,  but  I  think 
I'm  rite  on  that  pint — go  on  thar'.  Gee  Logan.  Goin' 
my  way  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  trying  to  surpress  the  laughter  that 
this  amusing  talk  from  this  decidedly  queer  character  pro- 
voked, as  I  hastily  mounted  the  tail  end  of  his  cart  just  as 
the  team  started  slowly  down  the  hill. 

"Twould'nt  improve  yer  helth  ter  go  eny  futher  no  how, 
fer  things  air  purty  ticklish  in  these  here  mount'ns  long 
erbout  this  time  er  yere  an'  hit  would'nt  do  ter  seek  ter 
moles'  er  mak'  erfeered." 

At  this  remark  I  gave  vent  to  the  laughter  I  could  no 
longer  surpress ;  the  mountains  echoed  and  re-echoed  the 
sound,  even  the  oxen  pricked  up  their  ears  and  the  driver 
regarded  me  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  said,  "but  your  waste  of  words  on  a 
simple  citizen,  incapable  of  doing  you  the  least  harm,  is  too 
amusing  for  me  to  treat  in  any  other  way  but  to  laugh." 

"Jes  so,"  he  muttered  abstractedly,  and  turned  to  lash  his 
team  into  a  swifter  gait.  For  a  few  moments  silence 
reigned.  Perched  upon  a  rather  high  seat  in  front  of  me, 
this  homespun  jehu  was  a  study.  He  had  taken  off  his  wide- 
brimmed  hat  and  thrown  it  behind  him,  thus  revealing  a 
shock  of  hair  of  no  particular  shade;  hair  grew  about  in 
spots  upon  his  rather  broad  chin,  but  refused  to  screen  his 
very  homely  mouth,  while  over  his  keen,  restless  gray  eyes, 
it  stood  out  like  tufts  of  moss.  He  was  neither  old  nor 
young — in  fact,  it  is  at  times  hard  to  determine  the  ages  of 
these  rudely-constructed  mountain  inhabitants ;  like  the 
bowlders  about  them,  age  seems  to  add  strength  and  hardi- 
hood. Upon  the  short,  square  body  of  my  companion  was  a 
coarse  homespun  shirt,  beneath  a  vest  of  the  same  shade 
and  material.  His  legs,  rather  long  for  so  short  a  body, 
were  encased  in  a  pair  of  clay-colored  pants  that  hung  as 
loose  as  a  sailor's  flaps,  and  the  wind,  freely  circulating 
around  his  legs,  caused  these  commodious  casings  to  bulge 

76 


out  like  loosely  furled  sails.  My  last  reply  seemed  to  have 
satisfied  him  as  to  my  calling,  for  his  talk  contained  fewer 
insinuations  and  his  manner  became  less  mysterious  as  we 
jogged  along. 

"Scuse  me  fer  be'n  so  monstrus  tegious,  stranger;  I  jes 
wanted  her  git  yer  bearin's  an'  see  which  way  yo'  er  hed- 
din.  Wd  uns  up  heer  hev  had  so  much  trouble  of  late  thet 
we  air  compelled  ter  be  es  wise  es  owls  an'  keen  sited  es 
eagles,  see  th'  guvmint  chap  er  far  off  an'  hoi'  'im  up  'fore 
he  reaches  th'  dead  line  an'  makes  trouble  fer  his  self.  Hav' 
er  chaw?" 

He  had  drawn  a  large  piece  of  tobacco  from  his  trouser's 
pocket,  and,  poking  it  at  me  without  looking  in  my  direc- 
tion, said: 

"Hits  good  smok'n  tobacky,  too,  ef  so  be  yo  got  yer  pipe 
handy." 

I  declined  to  accept  the  proffered  solace  on  the  plea  that 
I  never  used  tobacco  in  any  form. 

"Yo'  mus'  be  powerful  lonesom  an'  unhelthy,  too,"  he 
exclaimed,  turning  around  and  staring  at  me  with  a  face 
more  expressive  of  astonishment  than  before. 

"Well,  I  got  er  little  mount'n  commodity  under  this  yere 
seat  an'  ef  man'll  refuse  ter  oil  his  goozle  wi'  sich  es  that, 
he  hain't  got  no  liver  an'  melt." 

He  was  just  in  the  act  of  thrusting  his  hand  beneath  his 
seat  to  draw  forth  the  jug  that  I  might  test  the  pungency  of 
the  beverage,  when  I  arrested  it  by  calling  his  attention  to 
a  snow-white  cross  that  stood  upon  a  lofty  peak  some  dis- 
tance to  the  right  of  us. 

"Love's  Leap,"  he  averred,  with  a  wise  nod  of  his  head 
in  that  direction,  "tho't  every  body  on  top  side  th'  yerth 
hed  heern  tell  erbout  thet  cross  up  thar,  hit's  bin  tole  er 
thousan'  er  moe  times." 

He  had  forgotten  the  jug  beneath  his  seat ;  had  turned 
his  back  upon  his  beasts  and  left  them  to  stagger  lazily 
down  the  road.  And  now,  after  ejecting  a  large  quid  of 
tobacco  from  his  mouth  and  dashing  to  the  road,  he  rested 
his  elbow  upon  his  knee  and  momentarily  observed  me  with 
a  look  of  wisdom  that  would  do  credit  to  a  college  professor. 

"That  cross  up  thar,"  he  observed,  nodding  his  head  in 

77 


that  direction,  "is  got  er  tale  erbout  hit  that's  cakilated  ter 
giv  yer  er  kinder  hankerin'  ter  git  futher  an'  futher  'way 
f'm  hit  when  yo'  heer  hit — least  wise  that's  th'  way  hit 
made  me  feel  when  heerd  hit;  hit  happened  this  way: 

"Jes  after  th'  war  thar  cums  ter  th'  town  uv  Asheville 
wun  er  them  thar  Yankee  ciarpet  bag  musick  teachers,  wi' 
purty  good  manners,  good  looks  an'  er  powerful  lack  er 
money  an'  settled  deown  thar  ter  do  bizness,  er  ruther  ter 
flirt  wi'  Asheville's  gals ;  an'  acorse  like  suthern  gals  air 
toard  strangers  they  jes  warm'd  up  ter  'im  an'  soon  evry 
tongue  wus  er  waggin'  'bout  th'  dash  thisher  yank  wus  er 
cutt'n.  My,  but  want  he  er  spellbinder  on  notes,  tho';  he 
could  gallup  th'  gammit  faster'n  eny  chap's  ever  bin  'roun' 
these  parts.  Twus  er  cawshion  ter  see  his  fingers  fox- 
chasin'  an'  overlapp'n  each  uther  over  them  keys.  Hit 
seemed  thet  ev'ry  gal  mongst  th'  highflyers  wus  after  'im, 
an'  hit  'pear'd  like  he  did'n  hav  no  p'tickler  laks  fer  eny  uv 
'm — jes  smil'd  an'  run  on  wi'  all  alike.  But  he  purty  soon 
show'd  'em  thet  his  hed  wus  sot  on  one  'an'  sot  in  yerness ; 
an'  thet  wus  th'  darter  uv  old  Kurnal  Jinkin's,  who  alius 
wus  pison  ergin  yanks.  Disher  yank  had  bin  in  th'  houses 
ov  all  th'  big  bugs,  but  ole  Jinkins  swore  he'd  never  cross 
his  sill.  But  th'  gal,  in  santerin'  roun'  tother  folkses  houses, 
met  an'  coted  'im  thar.  Thet  which  cosses  us  mos'  is  thet 
we  hanker  arter  mos',  an'  wus  th'  way  wi'  thet  gal  an'  thet 
ding  yank;  he  jes  uptd  an'  got  sot  on  thet  gal  th'  fus  time 
he  saw  'er — luv  at  fus  site,  an'  ginewine  at  thet.  Ther  ole 
kurnal  pitched  an'  snorted  when  larn'd  th'  truth,  tol'  th'  gal 
he'd  see  'er  ded  afore  he'd  consent  fer  her  ter  marry  th' 
yank.  Th'  gal  she  tuk  on  pow'ful  erbout  hit,  fer  she  luv'd 
th'  chap.  But  she  tho't  it  her  dooty  ter  'bey  her  pappy,  an' 
so  jes  pined  erway.  Th'  yank  he  tuk  on  pow'ful  too,  but  ole 
Jinkins  stuk  out  an'  sot  his  boys  ter  watchin'  'em  ter  see 
thet  they  did'n'  git  tergether.  Finely  th'  yank  he  upt  an' 
went  erway ;  then  they  titen'd  th'  lines  on  th'  gal  f 'r  f eer  ov 
er  plot  ter  jine  'im  in  th'  North.  Two  monts  went  by,  an' 
one  dark  nite  th'  gal  jes  slipp'd  plum  out  er  site  an'  what 
puzzled  'em  mos'  wus  thet  she  only  tuk  her  praw'r  book. 
Trains  war  sarch'd,  telegrafs  war  sent  an'  th'  woods  war 
sarch'd  es  well,  an'  hit  wus  in  th'  woods  they  foun'  'er,  fer 

78 


she  had  lept  fr'm  thet  peak  up  thar,  praw'r  book  in  han'. 
Fer  deown  below  thar  they  cum  erpun  her  body  all  brok 
an'  brused  ergin  th'  rocks,  th'  little  praw'r  book  hilt  tite 
'tween  her  bleed'n  hans.  Th'  old  kurnal  tuk  on  pow'ful 
'bout  hit,  an'  blamed  hisself  fer  hit  all.  He  dug  her  grave  in 
th'  rocks  jes  at  th'  foot  er  thet  mount'n  an'  buried  her  thar, 
an'  raise  thet  cross  'bove  hit.  He  didn'  liv'  long  after  thet, 
jes  pined  away.  They  say  she's  bin  seen  more'n  onct  er 
wunderin'  erbout  thet  place,  moanin'  ter  her  self — I  hain't 
never  seen  'er  an'  th'  Lawd'l  mighty  knows  I  don't  wanter. 
"Yes,  thets  why  hits  called  Love's  Leap,"  he  concluded, 
with  a  shudder.  "Fur  up  on  th'  yon  side  er  Pisgah  as  yo' 
go  erlong,  yo'll  see  anuther  cross,  an'  hits  got  er  ghos'  story 
erbout  hit  too ;  an  Indian  an'  his  squaw's  buried  thar. 
Thisher  country's  jam  full  er  mysteries — whoa  thar,"  and 
he  turned  towards  his  team  to  check  them,  for  we  had 
reached  Paint  Rock.  Both  of  us  had  forgotten  the  jug  of 
corn  whiskey  beneath  his  seat — forgotten  everything  but 
the  white  cross,  still  visible,  and  its  sad  story  of  love,  des- 
peration and  death. 

JACK  THORNE. 


79 


CUMBERLAND 
A  Pullman  Porter's  Story 


When  the  managers  of  the  Atlantic  Coast  Line  made  up 
their  minds  that  a  shorter  route  from  Richmond  southward 
must  be  effected,  they  built  what  is  now  known  to  railroad 
men  as  the  "Wilson  Short  Cut,"  a  branch  of  road  turning 
out  from  the  main  line  at  Wilson,  N.  C,  and  extending 
through  to  Florence,  S.  C,  by  way  of  Fayetteville,  a  small 
town  on  the  upper  Cape  Fear  River.  This  lessened  the  time 
of  through  trains  by  saving  the  necessity  of  going  and  com- 
ing by  way  of  Wilmington,  a  hundred  miles  further  east- 
ward. I  had  spent  a  brief  period  of  my  early  childhood  in 
Fayetteville,  and  although  so  many  years  had  passed  since 
then,  the  recollection  of  some  of  its  streets  and  buildings, 
the  old  market  house  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  main 
street,  the  old  water  mill  on  the  creek  hard  by  with  its  cease- 
less "drumly-drum"  seemed  more  vivid  as  I  neared  the  old 
town,  after  a  lapse  of  so  many  years.  When,  on  its  way  to 
and  fro  the  train  paused  at  the  humble  little  station,  I  would 
take  in  as  much  of  the  old  town  as  a  gaze  from  the  rear 
platform  of  my  car  would  permit,  and  from  this  eminence 
watch  the  inhabitants  as  they  strolled  past,  to  see  if  I  might 
discern  in  the  face  of  some  child  or  adult  the  resemblance 
to  some  of  my  own  kindred  who  must  numeriously  inhabit 
that  section  of  the  State.  Then,  there  was  another  whose 
face  I  looked  for  far  more  eagerly  than  for  relations,  and  a 
craving  to  see  her  made  the  desire  to  get  off  and  ransack 
the  town  irresistable.  Wilmington  had  been  the  scene  of 
our  early  school  days.  And  often,  as  I  stood  there  looking 
at  Fayetteville's  antique  dwellings  and  thinking  longingly 
of  her,  it  seemed  that  I  heard  again  the  clang  of  the  old 
bell,  the  merry  shouts  of  the  children,  and  the  throng  of 
youth  and  beauty  would  come  prancing  past  me.    A  few  of 

80 


them  would  pause  to  gaze  into  my  face  and  fill  me  with  the 
desire  to  be  a  child  again.  Charley  Moseley,  with  his  mirth- 
provoking  grimaces;  "Sonie"  Bryant,  lamb-like  in  his  mis- 
chieviousness ;  Nellie  Gay,  with  her  beautifully  rounded  fig- 
ure, shaking  back  her  luxuriant  hair ;  dainty  and  bashful  Vir- 
ginia Moore,  blushing  beneath  her  sunbonnet ;  Katie  Paine, 
old  in  all  but  years.  Katie's  old-time  habits  made  her  the 
prey  of  boys  whose  delight  it  was  to  tease  in  those  days. 
Stoically  returning  a  blow  given  jest,  and  darting  about 
here  and  there  amongst  her  playmates,  that  expressionless 
face  of  Katie's  never  betrayed  the  lustiness  with  which  she 
joined  in  the  sport.  For  Katie  never  laughed  right  out; 
she  only  smiled  now  and  then,  and  her  smiles  were  like  fitful 
rays  of  light  occasioned  by  small  clouds  driven  past  the  sun, 
not  tarrying  long  enough  for  one  to  feel  their  warmth. 
Many  years  had  passed  since  the  parents  of  this  "little 
woman,"  with  their  immense  household,  had  left  Wilming- 
ton to  try  farming  in  Cumberland.  What  had  become  of 
them?  I  had  often  asked  myself,  as  the  train  sped  on  its 
way  and  the  sweet  vision  vanished.  Had  farming  been 
more  successful  than  carpentry?  Had  immense  flocks  and 
herds  crowned  their  efforts  in  this  new  venture,  or  had  they 
given  up  the  struggle  even  for  existence,  and  sought  rest  in 
the  grave?  One  day  I  yielded  to  the  desire  to  find  out  the 
truth  concerning  this  once  prosperous  and  happy  family 
and  left  the  train  as  it  slowed  up  at  the  station,  and  by  a 
few  inquiries  found — not  the  Paines,  but  Katie ;  for  with 
the  exception  of  the  two  youngest  ones,  of  all  that  once 
large  and  happy  household,  only  Katie  remained.  The 
father,  after  a  few  years  of  unrequited  toil,  had  sickened 
and  died,  and  the  mother  and  others  of  the  family  followed 
one  by  one,  leaving  this  creature  to  battle  with  poverty  and 
raise  the  younger  orphans  left  behind.  But  the  long  and 
severe  battle  for  existence  had  not  changed  Katie;  she  was 
old,  but  no  older  than  when  a  child.  There  was  the  same 
sad  face,  capable  of  being  momentarily  brightened  bv  a 
smile.  She  knew  me  not  at  first,  she  akimbowcd,  tossed  her 
head  to  one  side  and  shook  it  sadly  as  I  stood  there  in  the 
door  of  her  cottage  and  endeavored  to  carry  her  back  with 
me  over  past  sunny  years.     But  not  until  I  had  devulged 

81 


my  name  did  the  past,  with  all  its  vividness,  come  back  to 
her  burdened  mind. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  your  name  at  first?  I  recog- 
nized some  familiarity  in  your  features  the  moment  you 
came  up,  but  could  not  connect  it  with  your  name.  Come 
in!"  grasping  my  hand  eagerly  and  pulling  me  toward  a 
chair.  "I  haven't  been  to  Wilmington  since  we  left  there, 
because  of  so  much  sickness  and  death  and  the  worry  with 
these  children,"  she  went  on.  "How  did  you  happen  to  be 
here?    Laws,  I  never  expected  to  see  you  again." 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  and  rambled  through  the  dear  old 
past,  when  hearts  were  young  and  free  from  care. 

"I  suppose  many  of  the  boys  and  girls  are  grown  up  and 
married  now,  and  few  remain  in  the  old  home,"  she  said 
with  a  sigh.  "I  have  wanted  so  much  to  see  the  North 
myself,  but  I've  been  so  burdened  with  these  children."  She 
sighed  again.  "Now  they  are  big  enough  to  take  care  of 
themselves;  you  may  look  for  me  out  there  at  any  time." 

I  did  not  at  that  time  take  final  leave  of  Katie.  I  was 
to  return  after  taking  in  as  much  of  the  old  town  as  my 
brief  stay  would  permit. 

"Your  hand  must  be  the  last  I  shall  take  before  I  leave 
this  town,  perhaps  forever,"  I  said,  as  I  left  her  at  the 
gate.  That  evening  I  stumbled  upon  an  old  acquaintance 
who,  in  search  of  work,  had  found  a  temporary  home  in 
Fayetteville,  and  together  we  wended  our  way  to  a  cottage 
far  out  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  where  a  rehearsal  for  a 
prospective  concert  was  in  progress.  Within  this  group 
of  light  hearts  I  could  see  no  familiar  face,  nor  hear  such 
names  as  "Robinson,"  "Kelley,"  or  "Fulton"  mentioned. 
Of  that  innumerable  tribe  of  mine  scattered  abroad  in 
Cumberland  and  Bladen  Counties,  here  was  not  a  single 
offspring  to  show  that  they  had  striven  to  perpetuate  their 
progeny.  There  was  one  family  name,  however,  that  im- 
pressed me  more  than  any  others  mentioned  there  that  night, 
because  of  its  very  large  representation,  and  that  was 
"Lacy."  There  were  Mis  Sarah  Lacy,  Miss  Lucy  Lacy, 
Miss  Florie  Lacy  and  other  Lacys,  the  most  conspicuous  of 
whom  was  Miss  Sarah,  Mistress  of  Ceremonies,  whose  pro- 
gramme promised  to  be  immoderately  prolonged  by  inter- 

82 


missions  filled  with  "music  by  the  band."  So  perfect  were 
Miss  Florie's  reading  and  so  beautiful  Miss  Sarah's  sing- 
ing that  I  begged  for  a  repetition  of  the  same  at  the  Lacy 
cottage  the  following  day,  to  which,  through  the  courtesy  of 
my  friend,  I  accompanied  them  that  night. 

The  sun  was  shining  in  through  the  window  of  my 
friend's  apartment  the  following  morning  when  I  awoke. 
He,  having  to  depart  early,  had  been  good  enough  not  to 
awake  me.  Dressing  myself,  I  went  out  and  leisurely  saun- 
tered towards  the  center  of  the  old  town,  trying  to  arouse 
the  drowsy  memories  of  twenty  years.  One  of  the  streets, 
crossing  each  other  where  the  old  market  stands,  leads 
over  a  small  wooden  bridge  hard  by  the  water-mill,  and 
coming  up  to  the  court  house,  turns  like  a  stream  of  water 
obliquely  to  the  left.  It  was  up  this  street  I  strode  that 
morning,  filled  with  emotion  as  my  eyes  fell  upon  scenes 
that  had  almost  been  erased  from  the  memory.  There,  still, 
stands  the  court  house,  with  its  old  bell,  which  for  so  many 
years  had  called  the  quility  and  just  to  the  bar;  and  there 
stands  the  old  church  with  its  rusty  steeple,  covered  with 
ivy,  next  to  which  is  the  old  house  where  I  lived  when  a 
child.  There,  still  flows  the  creek  with  its  ceaseless  bubble, 
and  the  mill  going  "drumly-drum."  I  paused  upon  the  old 
bridge  that  crossed  it,  to  again  listen  to  its  murmur  and 
muse  upon  the  sweet  and  yet  painful  memories  it  recalled. 
Across  that  bridge  many  years  a-gone,  dashed  a  horse  all 
covered  with  foam ;  upon  that  horse  sat  a  hatless  boy  with 
hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  crying,  "Yankee!  Yankee! 
Yankee !"  while  "Thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb." 
Across  that  bridge,  "Dewy  with  nature's  tear  drops  as  they 
passed,"  strode  Sherman's  triumphant  legion  on  its  famous 
march  to  the  sea.  As  I  stood  there,  musing  over  that  event- 
ful episode,  I  heard  the  faint  tap  of  the  drum,  the  shrill 
clarion  note  of  the  bugle  in  the  distance ;  nearer  and  nearer 
it  came,  louder  and  louder  were  the  sound  of  drum  and  fife, 
and  the  tread  of  marching  feet,  and  the  spirits  of  those  im- 
mortal heroes  swept  past  me,  on,  on  into  eternity  to  stand  at 
parade  rest  around  their  grim  old  leader. 

At  the  Lacy  cottage  that  afternoon,  little  Florie  was  first 
to  welcome  me,  and  while  waiting  for  the  others  to  join  us, 

83 


she  gave  me  a  little  history  of  the  family.  "See,  this  is 
Papa,"  pointing  to  a  large  portrait  over  the  mantel.  "Papa 
is  dead  now,  but  he  was  very  good,  strove  to  give  us  all  an 
education  and  make  us  self-supporting.  This  one  hanging 
over  the  piano  is  that  of  a  married  sister  of  ours,  now  liv- 
ing in  Virginia.  This  is  our  'Mistress  of  Ceremonies',"  she 
continued,  courtesing  before  a  small  photo,  on  the  end  of 
the  mantel.  "But  what's  the  use  in  my  telling  you  about 
her;  she  has  tongue  enough  to  talk  for  herself.  Here  she 
comes  now." 

The  young  lady  entered  briskly,  came  up  and  warmly 
shook  my  hand. 

"I  knew  you  were  here,  knew  you  would  be  amply  enter- 
tained until  the  rest  of  us  could  get  in,  by  the  person  sent 
to  receive  you,"  she  said,  glancing  mischievously  at  Florie. 

"Now  Miss  Sarah  will  fill  us  with  rapture !"  exclaimed 
Florie,  seizing  her  sister  by  the  arm  and  pulling  her  towards 
the  piano. 

"Oh,  wait  'till  Lucy  comes !"  objected  that  lady,  stub- 
bornly resisting  her  sister's  efforts  to  push  her  down  upon 
the  piano  stool. 

"Sure  enough,  there  was  another." 

"Another !"  Florie  interrupted,  "why,  there  are  many 
others,"  and  she  began  to  playfully  count  her  fingers  as 
though  the  exact  size  of  the  family  could  not  be  readily 
given. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  go  and  fetch  in  that  shy  Lucy,"  and 
Florie  darted  out  to  return  immediately,  leading  her  sister 
by  the  hand.  Though  apparently  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
this  young  lady  was  more  retiring  and  less  communicative. 
Her  part  in  the  rehearsal  on  the  previous  evening  was  very 
small,  and  at  home  that  afternoon  her  keenest  enjoyment,  it 
seemed,  was  to  listen  to  her  sisters  and  applaud  their  witti- 
cisms. 

"I  don't  suppose  these  giddy  girls  thought  to  enquire 
how  you  like  our  little  city,  Mr.  Fulton,"  she  hazarded,  look- 
ing toward  the  piano,  where  Sarah  sat  with  her  head  bent 
forward,  running  her  fingers  over  the  keys  as  if  trying  to  re- 
call some  forgotten  melody. 

84 


"I  have  to-day  satisfied  a  long-wished-for  opportunity  to 
ramble,  as  it  were,  among  scenes  of  my  childhood;  this  is 
my  birthplace." 

"Birth  place !"  they  all  echoed  in  one  breath.  The  music 
ceased;  Sarah  turned  about  and  faced  me,  and  Florie,  who 
was  ransacking  the  music  rack,  arose  and  advanced  toward 
where  I  sat,  hurriedly  arranging  several  sheets  she  held  in 
her  hands. 

"This  your  birth  place?    Why!  how" — 

"Oh,  it's  many  years  ago,"  I  hastened  to  explain,  and  my 
kindred,  if  any  remain,  are  just  over  the  River." 

"Who  were  your  relations?"  asked  Sarah.  "My  father, 
who  was  a  public  carter  in  this  town  before  the  War,  was 
called  by  two  names,  'Kelley,'  and  'Fulton,'  and  my  mother 
was  a  'Robinson'.  Perhaps  that  gives  me  a  claim  upon  all 
the  Robinsons,  Fultons  and  Kelleys  in  the  country." 

"The  other  two  names  you  mentioned  are  rather  strange," 
Florie  answered,  "but  the  town  is  swarming  with  'Robin- 
sons', and  if  you'll  stay  over  here  a  while,  why,  I'll  help 
you  'round  'em  up  in  true  Western  style." 

"I  found  one  to-day,"  I  answered,  "but  my  time  is  too 
limited  for  further  search.  I  hope  to  come  again  some  day 
to  look  them  up.  But  come,  let  us  have  some  music,  and 
talk  of  things  more  serious  later  on." 

Sarah  turned  again  to  the  piano  and  began  to  slowly  run 
her  fingers  over  the  keys.  There  was  a  voluptuous  swell, 
and  then  the  music  died  away.  We  heard  the  chimes  in 
some  faraway  church  tower,  followed  by  the  loud  notes  of 
the  Anvil  Chorus  in  "II  Travatore,"  and  then  the  music 
merged  into  the  pathetic  Miseriere,  then  into  the  prelude, 
to  that  touching  old  and  appropriate  song,  "Faraway,"  and 
a  voice,  soft  and  sweet,  conjured  the  tears  down  my  cheeks. 
Miss  Sarah  arose  and  gracefully  bowed  her  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  applause  which  followed. 

"Now  as  Hamlet  said  to  the  player,  'give  us  a  taste  of 
your  quality,'  Mr.  Fulton." 

But  I  excused  myself  on  the  ground  that  although  I  had 
an  appreciative  ear  for  music,  I  possessed  not  the  skill  to 
perform  or  sing. 

"Now  you  can't  fool  us  into  the  belief  that  you  know 

85 


nothing  about  music,  speaking  as  you  did  last  evening  about 
'harmony'  and  'expression',''  exclaimed  Florie,  bounding  up. 
"He's  just  trying  to  see  how  much  we  know.  I'm  sorry  he 
came  to  our  rehearsal."  The  little  lady  pouted  like  a  child. 

"A  person  need  not  be  a  performer  to  know  what  sounds 
well,"  I  answered.  "I  know  but  little  in  that  line,  and  I  hope 
the  ladies  will  excuse  me  from  attempting  to  exploit  what 
little  I  do  know.  Both  the  singing  and  reading  were  ex- 
cellent last  evening,  and  I  was  promised — as  I  cannot  be 
at  the  concert — that  to-day  a  wee  bit,  and  the  most  interest- 
ing wee  bit,  of  that  proposed  programme  would  be  given 
for  my  pleasure,  and  now,  before  Miss  Florie  has  filled  her 
contract  to  recite,  a  demand  is  made  upon  the  'audience' 
to  be  the  entertainer.    Now  ladies,  it  isn't  fair." 

To  this  the  young  lady  replied  by  rising  and  advancing  to 
the  middle  of  the  room  and  beautifully  recited  the  "Aux 
Italiens,"  to  her  sister's  soft  and  inhancing  accompaniment. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  I  bade  adieu  to  the  Lacys,  to 
pass  the  night  with  a  relative  whom  I  had  met  by  chance 
that  day.  The  following  morning  I  sat  out  to  cross  the 
river  into  the  country  to  get  among  the  more  familiar  scenes 
of  childhood.  The  old  covered  bridge  which  spans  the 
river,  rebuilt  after  being  burned  by  a  retreating  rebel  army, 
gave  me  no  inviting  look  as  I  approached  it.  My  foot  falls 
upon  the  floor  echoed  like  voices  from  the  dead,  and  made 
me  feel  rather  uncomfortable.  It  was  across  this  bridge 
my  father  had  journeyed  in  the  sixties,  like  Lot  fleeing  from 
a  burning  city,  to  pitch  his  tent  in  the  wilderness.  Close  by 
the  old  county  road,  winding  down,  shaded  by  tall,  majestic 
pines,  giant  oak  and  hickory  trees  and  carpeted  with  their 
leaves,  in  a  lowly  cabin,  we  had  spent  our  childhood  days. 
When  father,  with  the  bulk  of  the  family,  finally  sought  a 
more  promising  abode  in  the  metropolis,  my  brother  Abe 
and  I  were  left  in  this  fairyland  with  an  elder  sister,  to 
chase  the  bee,  make  water  mills  in  the  brooks,  listen  to  the 
warbling  of  the  birds,  and  far  more  sweet  than  all,  the  un- 
trained, but  sweet  and  mellow  voice  of  this  child  of  nature. 
The  song  bird  paused  to  listen  when  she  sang  "Barbara 
Allen,"  "James  Gray,"  "Lily  was  a  Lady,"  "Ella  Lee,"  the 
songs  she  loved  so  well,  and  which  cling  to  me,  sweetening 

86 


the  recollection  of  those  sunny  days.  It  was  toward  this 
scene  that  I  wended  my  way  on  this  brisk  October  day  to 
get  among  the  dog-wood  and  the  pine  where  we  played. 
The  narrow  path  leading  from  the  road  to  the  cabin,  made 
sweet  in  summer  by  dog-wood  and  jasmine  blossoms,  is 
covered  with  weeds  now,  and  all  that  remains  of  the  dear 
old  hut  is  a  mass  of  ruins.  But  this  did  not  render  the 
memory  of  the  hallowed  past  less  sweet.  "The  bird  and  the 
blue  fly  roam  over  it  still."  Flowers  that  had  blossomed  for 
me  so  many  years  gone  by  were  drooping  their  heads  and 
shedding  their  petals  as  the  chill  winds  touched  them.  But 
they  had  tarried  long  enough  to  assure  me  that  through  all 
the  intervening  years  they  had  opened  their  mouths  to  catch 
the  dews  of  summer  and  drooped  at  winter's  stern  com- 
mand. The  brook  that  flowed  near  by  the  old  cabin  ap- 
peared less  wide,  and  the  path  leading  to  the  spring  was 
entirely  invisible. 

Abe,  do  you  remember  the  restless  little  rill, 

That  rippled  'neath  the  oak  tree's  spreading  shade? 

Where  we  used  to  love  to  loiter  as  we  journeyed  to  the  mill, 
To  rest,  or  in  its  shallow  depth  to  wade? 

Have  you  forgot  the  jasmine,  and  the  honeysuckle  vines, 

The  lilacs  and  wild  roses  white  and  red, 
Around  the  trees  upon  its  banks  the  perfum'd  vines  still 
twine, 

Although  since  then  so  many  years  have  fled. 

The  old  corn  field's  a  grove  of  trees  which  in  that  long  ago 
Was  one  vast  sea  of  living,  waving  green; 

Forever  now  they  rest — the  hands  that  handled  plow  and 
hoe, 
And  we  and  them  the  Jordan  rolls  between. 

Of  that  old  cabin  once  to  us  the  palace  of  a  king, 
Where  two  bare- footed  monarchs  used  to  reign ; 

To  whose  chinked  walls  so  plain  and  bare,  the  sweetest 
mem'ries  cling, 
A  heap  of  logs,  a  mound  of  clay  remain. 

There  was  no  sister  to  greet  me ;  only  a  rude  mound 
marks  the  spot  here  her  holy  dust  was  laid.     Not  far  dis- 

87 


tant,  her  children  are  ripening  into  manhood  and  woman- 
hood, and  the  father  is  feebly  tottering  toward  the  setting 
sun.  The  rude  letters  upon  the  humble  slab  that  marks  her 
resting  place  have  been  obliterated  by  the  ravages  of  time, 
and  what  was  written  there  of  her  virtues,  her  trials,  her 
hopes,  will  never  be  known.  But  no  more  fitting  epitaph 
could  have  been  written  there  than  this : 

"Nellie  was  a  lady, 
An'  las'  night  she  died ; 
Toll  the  bells  for  lovely  Nell, 
My  own,  true  darky  bride." 

I  quit  this  scene  with  a  sad  and  heavy  heart,  and  hur- 
ried back  to  the  town  that  I  might  say  good  bye  to  Katie 
before  boarding  the  train  for  New  York.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  her  face  to  betray  the  emotions  which  stirred  her 
soul  when,  after  a  long  chat,  I  arose  to  go ;  but  the  tenacity 
with  which  she  held  on  to  my  hand  showed  how  painful 
was  the  parting. 

"You  may  look  for  me  out  there ;  I'm  coming,"  she  said, 
with  a  voice  full  of  hope. 

Changes  great  and  terrible  have  taken  place  in  the  old 
North  State  since  then ;  the  despot's  cry  of  "Negro  Domi- 
nation" has  shaken  it  to  its  very  foundations.  Peaceful, 
law-abiding  citizens  have  arisen  up  to  slay  their  brethren, 
and  as  other  citizens  more  prosperous  than  she  have  had  to 
seek  elsewhere  for  what  they  could  not  enjoy  at  home,  I 
would  not  be  surprised  to  see  some  day,  among  the  throngs 
of  restless,  persecuted  refugees  hurrying  Northward  the 
melanchody  face  of  Katie  Paine. 


88 


A  HERO   IN  EBONY 

A  Pullman  Porter's  Story 


He  was  one  of  the  many  ragged  little  vagabonds  that 
besiege  passenger  trains  which  stop  daily  at  "Ashley  Junc- 
tion," just  one  mile  from  Charleston,  S.  C,  which,  during 
winter  and  spring  months,  are  laden  with  Northern  people 
on  their  way  to  and  from  Florida  and  congenial  localities  in 
other  Southern  States.  He  was  as  frolicsome,  cut  up  as 
many  "monkey  shines"  to  tempt  the  nickels  and  pennies 
from  the  pockets  of  the  tourists  as  any  of  the  others.  But, 
unlike  Negro  children  of  his  age  whose  eyes  of  soft  brown 
are  so  beautiful,  his  were  the  eyes  of  a  tipler,  very  red.  He 
was  doubtless  as  young  as  any  of  the  others  who  rent  the 
air  with  their  songs  and  shouts ;  but  his  red  eyes,  his  comical 
way  of  blinking  them,  knotting  his  face  and  ducking  about 
among  the  others  of  the  company  of  entertainers,  made  him 
appear  like  some  old  man  whom  nature  had  cheated  out  of 
his  growth  and  confined  to  the  companionship  of  children. 
My  frequent  journey ings  to  and  from  Charleston  had 
made  me  a  familiar  figure  amongst  the  "children  of  the 
Junction;  for  the  twenty  or  thirty  minutes'  wait  there  for 
Southern  connections  I  usually  spent  romping  with  them,  a 
hearty  sharer  of  their  sport,  much  to  the  disgust  and  chagrin 
of  my  fellow  railroad  men,  who  scorned  the  idea  of  seek- 
ing companionship  with  such  "uncouth  and  degraded  speci- 
mens of  the  human  family,"  as  one  fellow  put  it.  But  were 
not  these  "uncouth  specimens"  human  ?  with  the  same  feel- 
ings and  propensities  as  others?  What  mattered  it  if  their 
clothes  were  mere  rags,  their  faces  dirty  and  their  hair  un- 
kempt? Smalls,  Whipper,  Murray  and  others  of  that  race 
in  that  old  State  who  had  so  brilliantly  demonstrated  their 
fitness  for  higher  things,  came  up  from  the  ranks  of  the 
common  people,  such  as  these.    My  hero's  name  I  could  not 

89 


easily  remember,  so  I  used  to  teasingly  call  him  "Red  Eye," 
and  to  him  and  all  the  little  stripplings  at  the  Junction  I 
was  known  as  "Hey wood."  Their  barks  and  herbs  in  early 
spring  time,  their  violets,  water  lilies  and  strawberries 
always  had  a  ready  purchaser  in  me.  I  must  never  leave 
the  Junction  without  a  bunch  of  fresh  violets  in  my  lapel, 
and  a  basket  of  choice  strawberries  in  my  locker.  For  they 
all  knew  that  "Heywood's  return  often  meant  a  lot  of  cast- 
off  clothing,  old  hats  and  old  shoes  to  be  distributed.  None 
of  these  things — most  of  them  very  good — did  I  ever  see 
any  of  them  wearing  at  the  Junction. 

"I  war  mine  ter  Sundy  skule ;  tink  I  gwa  war  um  heah 
ter  git  all  mummux  up  'mong  dese  niggers  ?"  said  Red  Eye, 
one  day,  in  answer  to  my  queries. 

Old  as  Red  Eye  looked,  he  could  jump  higher,  sing  louder, 
and  run  faster  than  any  boy  or  girl  at  the  Junction.  The 
Northerner  never  tires  listening  to  "Go  Down  Moses," 
"Suwanee  River,"  etc.,  and  witnessing  the  "buck"  and 
"wing"  dance  so  cleverly  performed  by  these  little  South- 
ern youngsters.  So  a  performance  must  be  given  for  every 
train-load  of  passengers  that  halted,  and  at  these  functions 
Red  Eye  was  the  Undisputed  leader.  For  the  pennies  and 
nickels  the  passengers  were  inclined  to  throw  out,  the  little 
ones  would  cut  many  queer  capers.  At  times  they  were  un- 
reasonable in  their  demands  for  things  amusing,  and  trains 
would  often  pull  out  leaving  some  of  the  youngsters  wet  to 
their  skins  from  diving  in  water  for  money  thrown  in  to 
make  the  fun  more  enjoyable.  Cruel  as  this  part  of  the 
sport  seemed,  it  was  nevertheless  an  amusing  spectacle. 
Red  Eye,  always  apparently  the  least  concerned,  would 
often,  while  eyes  were  stretched  watching  the  coin  in  the 
passenger's  hand,  bound  into  the  air  and  seize  it  before 
it  could  hit  the  ground.  Pushing  the  money  into  his  pocket, 
he  would  leisurely  saunter  away  with  such  a  comical  look  of 
triumph  in  his  face,  that  the  passengers  would  forget  the 
disappointment  of  witnessing  a  scramble. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  early  spring,  before  the  sun  had 
arisen  to  kiss  away  the  dew  from  the  grass,  while  the  air 
was  still  laden  with  the  breath  of  sweet  flowers,  I  strolled 
out  from  Charleston  to  attend  "Love feast"  at  the  little  log 

90 


meeting  house  at  the  Junction.  None  but  those  who  have 
lived  there  can  tell  of  the  sweetness  of  a  Southern  spring 
time.  A  mocking  bird,  hidden  away  amid  the  foliage  of  a 
large  oak  tree,  was  calling  to  the  sun  to  make  haste,  to 
gladden  the  earth  with  its  light.  Partridges,  squattling  be- 
neath a  clump  of  bushes,  startled  me  by  their  sudden  and 
hasty  flight,  and  a  serpent,  aroused  from  its  repose,  scam- 
pered away,  hissing  angrily  at  me  as  it  went.  Young  as 
was  the  morning,  the  little  church  was  well  filled  with  wor- 
shippers and,  floating  out  on  the  perfumed  air,  came  that 
old  familiar  hymn, 

"Lawd  in  de  mornin'  dou  shalt  heah 
My  voice  ascendin'  high." 

Very  much  to  my  astonishment,  in  a  far  corner,  with  a 
look  of  solemnity  upon  his  face  that  a  priest  might  covet, 
sat  Red  Eye.  Solemn  as  he  tried  to  appear,  he  could  not 
dispel  the  mirth-provoking  expression  always  there  upon 
that  ebony  countenance.  As  I  momentarily  observed  him 
sitting  there,  looking  so  sober  and  melancholy,  my  thoughts 
flitted  back  to  the  roadside,  where  he  was  wont  to  be  any- 
thing but  worshipful;  and  forgetful  of  my  surroundings,  I 
was  about  to  exclaim,  "Hello,  Red  Eye,"  but  the  sad  wail  of 
the  worshippers  snatched  me  from  the  roadside  to  "The 
Gate  of  Heaven,"  for  surely  "The  Lord  was  in  that  place !" 
An  angel  had  come  down  on  that  beautiful  morning  and  had 
troubled  the  waters,  and  those  humble  worshippers  were 
laving  in  the  life-giving  stream.  At  the  close  of  the  meet- 
ing, a  hand  was  gently  laid  upon  my  shoulder,  and  that  voice 
I  had  learned  to  love  said: 

"Hello,  Heywood!     Wha'  yo'  doin'  heah?" 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  really  had  need  of  Sunday  clothes," 
I  answered,  good  naturedly.  , 

"Yo  see  um  doncher,  see  um?"  and,  thrusting  his  thumbs 
into  his  suspenders,  he  strutted  off  a  piece  that  I  might  sur- 
vey him  to  advantage.  Turning  about  suddenly,  his  face 
again  expressive  of  worshipful  solemnity,  he  said:  "An' 
yo'  seed  me  in  dat  Amen  corner,  too ;  did'n  you  Heywood  ?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  you  and  was  surprised  to  see  you  so  worship- 
ful, so  good." 

9i 


"Oh,  I  tells  yo'  ise  got  de  deligion,  shoes  yo'  bo'n;  Ise 
one  er  gawd's  lambs,  an'  I  spec  ter  be  dar  on  dat  gitt'n  up 
mawnin'." 

He  had  thrown  his  hat  upon  the  ground,  and  with  one 
hand  extended  above  his  head,  was  shouting  and  capering 
about  in  the  most  comical  way.  There  was  the  ring  of 
honest  truth  in  his  voice,  and  I  believed  him.  The  rough- 
est piece  of  marble  can  be  carved  into  the  form  of  an  angel. 
Jesus  had  died  for  this  rough,  uncouth,  ignorant  youngster 
as  well  as  for  the  "wise  and  prudent,"  and  made  it  possible 
that  he,  by  the  grace  of  God  might  be  made  to  "shine  as  the 
brightness  of  the  firmament,  and  as  the  stars  forever."  . 

Pausing  suddenly,  he  caught  hold  of  my  arm  and  said, 
Come,  Heywood,  gwa  tek  yo'  home,  show  yo'  me  ma  an' 
strawberry  patch." 

I  followed  my  devoted  little  friend  that  morning  to  his 
two-roomed  cabin,  there  to  find  new  acquaintances  and 
make  new  friends  whose  homely  yet  copious  hospitality 
made  this  humble  log  cabin  the  palace  of  a  king.  Although 
there  were  knives,  forks  and  spoons  for  all  who  sat  down 
to  dine  at  the  humble  table,  Red  Eye  felt  that  I  would  the 
better  enjoy  my  dish  of  delicious  "garden  peas,"  fresh  from 
the  field,  if  I  used  his  favorite  spoon,  which  he  himself  had 
polished  and  cleaned. 

All  through  that  balmy  afternoon  we  wandered  together 
through  wood  and  field  and  by  shady  brooks  in  that  Eden 
of  jasmine,  honey-suckles  and  violets,  until  weary  and  tired 
we  sank  down  by  the  roadside  to  watch  the  spires  of  the 
distant  city  fade  from  view  as  the  evening  shadows  fell 
around  us. 

On  my  arrival  at  Jersey  City,  I  was  assigned  for  a  few 
trips  to  a  Western  "run,"  and  for  quite  a  long  period  was 
deprived  of  my  weekly  romps  with  the  children  of  the  Junc- 
tion. Through  the  long  stretch  of  country  between  New 
York  and  Chicago,  hundreds  of  miles  are  traversed  with- 
out as  much  as  a  glimpse  of  a  single  dusky  face.  How  I 
did  miss  my  little  fun-makers !  How  void  of  real  life  were 
these  dreary  Western  journeyings  !  Leaves,  faded  and  dead, 
were  flying  hither  and  thither,  blown  by  chill  winds  that 
heralded  approaching  winter,    when    I,    with    a    load    of 

92 


Cubans,  returning  from  Europe  and  Northern  watering 
places,  was  again  moving  Southward.  It  was  a  dense  foggy 
night,  and  the  train  having  crossed  the  Pedee  River  into 
South  Carolina,  was  slowly  nearing  Ashley  Junction,  when 
the  engine's  whistle  gave  a  signal  for  "brakes,"  and  came 
almost  to  an  adrupt  standstill.  So  quickly  and  suddenly 
were  the  brakes  applied  that  the  passengers  were  pretty 
severely  shaken  up  and  excited  over  the  sudden  and  pain- 
ful pause.  As  soon  as  quiet  was  restored  in  my  car  I  stole 
out  upon  the  platform  and  looked  ahead,  and  saw,  about 
thirty  yards  ahead  of  the  engine  a  group  of  men  bending 
over  something  on  the  track.  "Poor  little  fellow !  He  has 
broken  his  leg,"  I  heard  someone  exclaim,  as  I  neared  the 
scene.  Bending  over  to  get  a  closer  view  the  eyes  of  my  boy 
metmine.  In  his  effrts  to  run  swiftly  over  the  track,  one  of 
his  legs  had  caught  and  snapped  just  above  the  ankle. 
Although  his  sufferings  were  intense,  he  readily  recognized 
me,  and  smiling  through  his  tears,  he  raised  a  battered  lan- 
tern which,  though  in  agony,  he  was  still  firmly  grasping, 
and  said,  "Heywood,  I  taut  yo'  bin  on  dat  train."  Tenderly 
we  lifted  the  little  fellow  and  carried  him  to  the  baggage  car, 
and  there  made  him  as  comfortable  as  possible.  But  it  was 
not  until  the  morning  sun  had  cleared  away  the  mist  that 
we  fully  realized  why  he  was  there  upon  the  track  at  that 
hour,  and  whathavoc  had  been  averted  by  his  being  there.  A 
blunder  in  the  display  of  signals  had  caused  a  northbound 
freight  train  out  of  Charleston  to  collide  with  another, 
southbound,  killing  both  engineers  and  thereby  rendering 
others  of  the  crews  panic  stricken  and  helpless.  The  boy, 
whose  house  was  not  far  distant  from  the  Junction,  hear- 
ing the  awful  crash,  had  hastened  to  the  scene,  and  seeing 
the  others  helpless,  seized  a  lantern  and  ran  ahead  to  warn 
the  passenger  train,  which  he  knew  would  soon  come  thun- 
dering on  unaware  of  the  danger  that  awaited  it.  And  al- 
though he  had  broken  his  leg  before  the  train  hove  in  sight, 
he  bravely  swung  the  lantern  until  the  engineer  saw  it  and 
stopped.  Tears  filled  the  eyes  of  many  who  bent  over  the 
little  form  that  morning  and  lavishly  showered  money  into 
the  lap  of  the  mother  that  had  borne  such  a  son ;  for  there, 
upon  that  rude  pallet,  lay  a  hero  carved  in  ebony. 

93 


JEWISH  TRAVELERS 


A  Pullman  Porter's  Story 


The  Jew,  like  the  colored  brother,  has  suffered  a  good 
deal  because  of  the  universal  antipathy  towards  his  race. 
Unlike  the  Negro,  whose  color  is  his  principal  stigma,  the 
Jew  is  singled  out  chiefly  by  his  traits.  In  public  convey- 
ances, playhouses,  hotels,  etc.,  the  Jew  is  loudest  in  his  de- 
mands for  his  money's  worth  and  his  every  right  as  a  citi- 
zen— a  "chronic  kicker,"  to  use  the  common  phrase.  In  the 
palace  car  service  the  porter  has  in  many  instances  allowed 
himself  to  drift  into  the  common  trend  of  feeling  ,in  4iis 
treatment  of  Jewish  travellers.  But  all  good  men  in  the 
service  will  agree  with  me  that  on  all  fine  trains  and  among 
the  most  select,  first-class  passengers  the  Jew  figures  very 
largely ;  that  in  tipping  he  is  as  liberal  as  the  average  Chris- 
tian. Admitting  that  he  is  a  kicker,  the  Jew  is  a  desirable 
passenger ;  for  but  few  of  the  numerous  reports  that  go  into 
the  district  superintendent's  offices  frought  with  complaints 
about  trifles  to  annoy  and  inconvenience  employees  are 
signed  by  Jews.  The  Jew  is  plain.  If  things  don't  go  to 
suit  him  he'll  speak  out  about  it  and  often  very  loud,  and  if 
the  employee  is  civil  he  need  not  look  for  further  trouble ; 
for  the  Jew  is  not  a  sneak.  The  Jew  is  a  sociable  passen- 
ger, he  likes  to — if  there  is  nothing  else  to  absorb  his  at- 
tention— chat  with  the  porter,  which  in  the  main  consists 
of  incessant  interrogatories,  and,  strangely,  too,  about  things 
on  which  one  would  suppose  he  is  well  informed.  For  in- 
stance: "Porter,  what  time  does  the  three  o'clock  train 
leave?"  He  knows  that  the  three  o'clock  train  leaves  sixty 
minutes  past  two  o'clock,  but  a  well-trained  employee  will 
answer  even  such  absurd  questions  without  the  least  show 
of  anger. 

I  am  indebted  to  Porter  E.  R.  A.  Lawton  for  the  follow- 
ing story: 

94 


On  a  train  en  route  from  Chicago  one  night  the  sleeper 
was  well  filled  with  a  load  of  jolly  good-natured  passengers 
and  among  the  smokers  who  puffed  away  in  the  smoking 
department  in  the  early  part  of  the  night  was  a  lone  Jew. 
When  the  berths  had  all  been  prepared  and  the  porter  had 
brought  in  his  linen  and  deposited  it  upon  a  seat  in  the 
smoker  as  a  hint  to  the  wise  that  it  was  his  bed  time,  the 
men  one  by  one  began  to  retire  until  with  the  exception  of 
the  Jewish  passenger  the  smoker  was  empty.  The  Jew,  not 
wishing  to  retire  before  enjoying  another  cigar,  called  the 
porter  to  him,  "I  sthay,  porder,  go  to  mine  bert,  lower  num- 
ber six,  feel  under  neadt  and  fetch  me  mine  gthrip." 

"Yes  sah,"  said  the  porter,  hastening  away. 

The  grip  was  brought,  the  passenger  opened  it,  took  from 
it  a  quart  bottle  of  whiskey,  called  for  a  glass,  filled  it  about 
a  third  full,  drank  it,  then  offered  some  to  the  porter,  who 
demurred. 

"Dhrink,  porder,"  he  insisted,  "I'm  no  spodder,  I  no  re- 
port at  you,  dhrink.  Dot  vas  gude  whiskey  fhrum  Brusen- 
heimer's  on  State  Sthreet.     Dhrink !  id  do  you  gude." 

The  porter  accepted  just  a  little.  The  passenger  put  the 
bottle  again  into  its  place,  handed  the  bag  back  to  the  por- 
ter, lit  a  fresh  cigar  and  settled  himself  back  upon  the 
lounge  to  enjoy  it. 

Two  o'clock  the  following  morning,  when  all  passengers 
were  asleep,  and  the  porter  was  on  his  shoe-cleaning  rounds, 
he  paused  at  number  six,  got  down  on  his  knees,  cautiusly 
reached  under  it  and  slowly  drew  forth  the  Jew's  bag,  and 
sneaked  with  it  towards  the  smoking  room,  there  to  test  to 
his  satisfaction  the  pungency  of  the  beverage.  It  was  good, 
so  good,  in  fact,  that  the  porter  thought  it  would  be  un- 
charitable and  selfish  in  him  to  enjoy  it  alone. 

"Hi  there  Cap'n !"  he  called  to  the  sleeping  car  conductor 
who  was  passing  at  the  time.  "Come  yeah !  Great  Jerusalem, 
come  yeah !  Jes  hit  dat,"  holding  out  the  bottle  to  the  con- 
ductor. "Look  heah,  ain't  dat  de  bestes  stuff  yo  ebber 
tasted  ?"  he  asked  that  individual,  who,  after  two  long  gulps 
handed  back  the  bottle  and  wiped  away  the  tears  that  the 
hasty  swallowing  of  the  strong  stuff  had  pushed  out  of  his 
eyes. 

95 


"It's  good.     Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"From  a  Sheeny  frien'  er  mine,"  returned  the  porter. 

The  train  conductor,  catching  the  odor  wafted  upon  the 
other's  breath,  naturally  raised  inquiries,  and  was  soon 
journeying  down  the  aisle  toward  the  smoking  room,  fol- 
lowed by  the  brakeman,  in  whose  wake  sauntered  the  bag- 
gageman, and  when  the  three  got  through  "pulling"  at  the 
Jew's  whiskey  it  was  nearly  all  gone. 

That  morning  when  the  porter  saw  the  man  in  number 
six  arise  and  begin  to  dress  he  grabbed  his  duster  and 
struck  a  bee  line  for  the  opposite  end  of  the  car.  The  first 
thing  the  passenger  did  on  reaching  the  smoking  room  was 
to  open  his  bag  to  take  an  eye-opener  before  proceeding  to 
fix  his  toilet.  But  when  he  drew  forth  his  bottle,  and  found 
it  empty,  he  rushed  out  into  the  body  of  the  car,  and,  hold- 
ing his  pants  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he. brand- 
ished the  bottle,  gave  a  yell  and  cut  up  some  antics  that 
would  put  an  Indian  ghost  dancer  to  shame. 

"Where  in  the  h'll  is  dot  porder?" 

Passengers  began  to  move  about  uneasily,  thinking  that 
a  lunatic  had  got  into  the  sleeper.  The  porter,  hearing  the 
noise,  shyly  peeped  around  into  the  aisle  and  was  espied  by 
the  Jew,  who  shouted :  "Ah !  ha !  you  dondt  knows  me  now, 
eh?  Vere  was  da  whiskey  dat  vas  in  dot  bottle,  eh?  You 
vas  dhrinking  in  der  smoking  room  las  nighd.  I'll  repordt 
you.    Vere  vas  dot  whiskey,  eh?" 

"'Clar  fo'  God,  boss,  I  dunno  ting  erbout  it,"  returned  the 
porter,  coming  shyly  up  to  where  the  enraged  passenger 
stood. 

"Oh,  no !  Idt  evaporated,  I  suppose !  It  leakdt  oudt.  I 
look  in  der  bag,  I  see  no  leak.  I  look  on  der  carpet,  I  see 
no  leak,  idt  evaporated,  eh?  Oh — you  rascale,  I'll  repordt 
you." 

The  passengers  had  returned  to  the  smoking  room  and 
had  begun  to  dress,  when  the  sleeping  car  conductor  came 
by  on  his  rounds  returning  passes  and  tickets. 

"I  sthay  Conductor,"  said  the  passenger,  "I  want  ter 
spheak  to  you." 

"Well,  fire  away,"  answered  that  individual  impatiently. 
"I  tuke  that  nigger  in  th'  shmokeroom  lasdt  night  un'  giv 

96 


'im  a  dhrink  of  vhiskey  dat  cos'  two  dollar  a  quardt  at  Bru- 
zenheimer's  on  Shtate  Sthreet;  un  jus'  so  soon  as  I  vus  in 
bed  that  nigger  goes  to  mine  bert,  takes  oud  that  boddle  an' 
dhrinks  th'  balance." 

"You'll  have  to  report  that  matter  to  thecompany,"  re- 
turned the  conductor,  "I  haven't  time  to  attend  to  it." 

"Oh,  no,"  shouted  the  Jew,  "You  dhrunk,  too ;  all  of  you 
was  dhrunk,  de  train  conductor  was  dhrunk;  sleebin'  car 
conductor  was  dhrunk;  brakeman  was  dhrunk;  porder  was 

dhrunk ;  engineer  was  dhrunk everybody  was  dhrunk  on 

dot  vhiskey,  an'  I  report  th'  whole  crew." 

That  was  the  work  of  a  mean  ingrate  who  deserved  to  be 
severely  dealt  with,  but  the  palace  car  authorities  received 
no  complaint  from  the  justly  aggrieved  passenger. 


97 


LITTLE  SARAH 


A  Pullman  Porter's  Story 


There  boarded  a  southbound  train  out  from  Philadelphia 
one  evening  a  little  Negro  girl  about  ten  years  of  age.  She 
was  as  frolicsome  and  as  restless  as  a  colt,  with  a  head  as 
bare  of  hair  as  a  boy's.  From  a  letter  she  poked  up  at  me 
in  answer  to  my  queries,  I  learned  that  she  was  being  re- 
turned to  her  mother  in  St.  Augustine  by  people  with  whom 
she  had  been  staying  in  a  small  town  in  New  Jersey.  There 
was  also  an  earnest  request  that  she  be  looked  after  by 
trainmen  on  the  route  and  safely  carried  to  her  destination. 
I  had  often  seen  children  tagged  and  shipped  like  animals 
from  one  section  of  the  country  to  another,  and  their  sad 
and  forlorn  aspect  had  always  awakened  my  deepest  sym- 
pathy. And  as  this  little  creature  was  one  of  my  own  race, 
I  included  myself  as  one  whose  special  duty  it  was  to  look 
after  her.  But  I  was  too  busy  on  the  first  part  of  the 
journey  to  do  more  than  casually  glance  at  her  as  I  went 
back  and  forth  through  the  train.  The  following  after- 
noon, the  train  having  stopped  just  north  of  Goldsboro, 
N.  C,  on  account  of  a  wreck,  a  few  young  men  in  the 
coach  in  which  the  little  girl  was  riding,  were,  in  order  to 
relieve  the  monotony  of  the  long  wait,  amusing  themselves 
and  others  at  the  expense  of  the  "little  nigger"  by  throwing 
old  quids  of  tobacco,  peanut  hulls,  apple  cores  and  squirt- 
ing water  at  her  from  their  mouths.  But  the  plucky  little 
creature  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  When  I  entered  to 
entreat  them  to  desist,  she  stood  in  the  aisle  with  a  glass  of 
water  in  one  hand  and  the  stove  poker  in  the  other  like  a 
tigress  at  bay,  glorious  in  her  defiance,  and  making  as  much 
noise  as  an  English  sparrow.  It  was  back  in  the  sleeper 
that  she  finished  her  journey,  where  the  ebony  face  was 

98 


washed,  the  simple  frock  mended  and  rid  of  tobacco  stains 
and  the  little  head  brushed.  What  a  Topsy  she  must  have 
been  in  that  Northern  household,  and  what  a  lot  of  trouble 
that  Miss  "Ophelia"  must  have  undergone,  I  thought,  as  I 
stood  and  watched  her  come  slowly  up  the  aisle  toward  me, 
mischievously  pulling  this  and  that  lady's  hair  or  bonnet, 
or  pounding  the  richly  upholstered  seats  with  her  old  school 
bag,  which,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  box  hid  away  in  a 
corner,  was  her  sole  possession;  and  it  was  just  because  she 
was  so  bad  she  was  being  sent  home. 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?"  I  aked,  as  she,  with 
with  a  comical  grin,  pressed  down  upon  my  sore  toe  with 
her  heel. 

"Sarah,  Sarah  Aaron,"  saucily;  "I  told  you  that  three 
times  before.    You  men  are  so  forgetful." 

Her  English  was  as  perfect  as  any  Bostonian  could  utter 
it — so  in  contrast  with  her  rustic  appearance.  At  Jackson- 
ville, where  my  journey  ended,  I  accompanied  her  to  the 
train  which  took  her  to  St.  Augustine.  "Come  and  see  us 
whenever  you  come  to  St.  Augustine,"  she  implored,  cling- 
ing to  my  arm.  "Remember,  my  n-a-m-e  i-s  S-a-r-a-h; 
Sarah  Aaron.    Oh,  you  men  are  so  very  forgetful." 

It  was  quite  a  few  years  after  this  before  an  opportunity 
to  go  to  St.  Augustine  was  given  me ;  it  was  when  the  Rich- 
mond and  Danville  Railroad  had  extended  its  lines  into 
Florida,  put  on  through  fast  trains  from  New  York  and 
boasted  a  much  shorter  route  to  the  Gulf  than  any  other 
road. 

It  was  my  privilege  to  be  one  of  the  first  Pullman  men 
sent  over  this  new  line  to  arrive  at  Jacksonville  in  time  to 
miss  the  St.  Augustine  connection  by  two  hours,  which 
necessitated  a  long  and  tiresome  journey  to  our  destination 
behind  a  "local."  The  very  old  city  of  St.  Augustine  has 
been  transformed  into  modern  beauty  by  the  lavished  wealth 
of  Flagler,  the  oil  king,  and  at  this  time,  "Hotel  White 
Elephant,"  successfully  run  by  a  portly  dame,  occupied  quite 
an  enviable  site  adjacent  the  modernized  section  of  the  city. 
It  was  past  the  dinner  hour  when  I  entered  the  inviting- 
looking  dining  room  of  this  Southern  hostelry,  the  only 
person  visible  being  a  small  sized  girl  who  timidly  came  for- 

99 


ward  with  her  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  which  seemed  to  give 
her  pain.  "Two  eggs,  fried,  and  a  cup  'o  coffee,  please," 
I  requested,  seating  myself  at  one  of  the  little  snow-white 
tables. 

"Sah?"  she  said,  leaning  over  and  pulling  at  her  apron 
strings.  I  repeated  the  order.  "And  what  have  you  in  the 
way  of  cold  meats?" 

"Bery  nice  ham,  sah,"  chimed  in  another  voice  before  that 
freezing  smile  sufficiently  relieved  the  girl's  face  to  answer 
me,  and  the  portly  proprietress  strode  out  from  behind  a 
screen  and  confronted  me.  "An'  we  hab  sum  fine  fish, 
fresh  from  de  ribber  an'  fresh  fried,"  she  added,  drawing 
nigh  and  seating  herself  at  a  table  next  mine. 

"Catfish?"  I  asked,  thinking  of  New  Orleans. 

"Now  look  yer,  mister  man,  lookyer,  we  don't  put  catfish 
before  customers  in  disher  resterant. 

"Catfish  is  quite  savory  when  properly  prepared,"  I 
answered,  thinking  of  the  famous  old  Cape  Fear  River  cat- 
so  popular  at  my  home. 

"Maks  no  dif'rent  how  sabry  hit  is  its  not  de  fish  Gawd 
tole  de  chilan  ter  eat  'kase  hits  wi'dout  de  scales  an'  darfoe 
is  er  bomination ;  no  catfish  fer  Hotel  White  Elephant." 

"I'l  try  an  order  of  fish,"  I  said. 

No  better  opportunity  than  this,  I  thought,  to  enquire 
concerning  my  little  heroine,  whose  fate  and  welfare  were 
nearer  to  my  heart  than  this  much  desired  and  at  length 
gratified  opportunity  to  stroll  about  in  the  oldest  city  in 
the  United  States. 

"I  no  dat  gal  lak  a  book,"  exclaimed  the  portly  proprietress 
of  "Hotel  White  Elephant,"  at  the  conclusion  of  my  story 
of  my  meeting  with  the  child  and  our  eventful  journey 
South.  "She  wus  de  beatenes'  youngun  dat  eber  Gawd  let 
lib.  Why,  she  kicked  up  so  dar  in  de  norf  dat  dey  jes  had 
ter  bundle  'er  up  an'  hustle  'er  orf." 

"Why,  she  told  me  they  sent  her  home  because  they  were 
going  West  to  live  and  did  not  care  to  take  her  so  far 
away." 

"Hits  'er  no  sich  'er  thing;  dey  sont  'er  home  'kase  she 
bin  so  bad.    I  no  de  time  dey  tuk  her  'way  ter  be  deir  own 


ioo 


chile,  but  de  gal  got  so  high  dey  had  to — now  yo'  no  de  res'. 
Yo'  coffee's  gitt'n  cold." 

She  paused  in  this  painful  anamidversion  to  throw  one  of 
her  slippers  after  a  cat  that  emerged  from  the  kitchen  with 
a  huge  piece  of  fish  in  its  mouth  and  bolted  towards  the 
back  door. 

"When  dat  gal  got  back  ter  Sint  Augustine,"  she  re- 
sumed, "she  had  jes  bin  norf  long  nuff  ter  tun  um  cumpleet 
fool.  Talk?  Why,  she  had  de  Inglish  so  mix  an'  mumix 
up  dat  yo'  could  skasely  understan'  um.  Hit  wus  'carry' 
f er  tote ;  'I  cawnt  place  yaw,'  fer  I  dunno  yo,  an'  when  she 
felt  bad  she  had  er  fashion  ob  trowin'  back  dat  clean  hade  er 
hern  an'  saying,  T  feel  slitely  indesposed  tu  diay.'  Why, 
da'  gal  wus  er  consumin'  fiah.     How  yo'  lak  dat  fish?" 

"Splendid,"  I  answered,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  said. 
This  woman  knew  not  how  unmercifully  she  was  lacerating 
my  very  heart  and  driving  away  my  appetite. 

"Where  is  she  now,"  I  asked,  wearily. 

"De  lawed  knows,  honey ;  de  las'  I  hearn  ob  er  she  bin  in 
Jacksonbill,  wild  es  er  buck."  "Where  is  her  mother  ?"  "Dat 
gal's  muther  bin  dade  dese  two  yeahs  now."  "Mother 
dead  ?"  I  gasped.  "Den  shewent  to  de  bad  fast,"  answered 
my  informant,  with  a  look  of  triumph  in  her  eyes.  "C'line ; 
bring  de  genman  sum  moe  coffee." 

But  I  declined  a  second  cup ;  appetite  for  more  to  eat  had 
left  me  as  I  sat  there  and  pictured  my  little  one  only  as  a 
child  of  the  slums,  with  that  once  innocent  face  marred  by 
marks  of  dissipation.  "Has  she  no  kindred  at  all?"  I  asked 
after  a  long  pause.  "She's  got  er  sister  sum  whar  in  New 
Augustine."  I  arose,  paid  my  bill  and  staggered  out  into 
the  darkness  to  learn  from  her  sister  more  cheering  news 
concerning  my  heroine,  only  to  search  for  that  sister  in 
vain.  At  midnight,  weary  and  exhausted,  I  sat  down  upon 
the  steps  of  the  old  French  market  to  enjoy  the  refreshing 
breeze.  Far  out  to  sea  the  breakers  were  rolling  shore- 
ward like  lions  at  play.  Onward  they  came,  rolling  higher 
and  higher  and  nearer  and  nearer  until  they  engulfed  me; 
then  lifted  and  bore  me  to  a  faraway  island  of  beauty.  It 
seemed  that  there  were  no  grown-up  people  there,  it  was 
child  land,  a  land  of  Innocence  and  Love.    There  were  mil- 

IOI 


lions  of  little  ones  gathered  there  from  the  north  and  from 
the  south  and  from  the  east  and  fromthe  west,  sporting 
among  beautiful  flowers  and  luxuriant  foliage.  As  I  stood 
there  wrapt  in  wonder  at  the  sights  before  me,  the  voice  of 
a  trumpet  rang  out  above  the  din  of  mirth  and  merriment; 
I  turned  and  looked  eastward,  and  there  in  bright  clouds 
above  me,  with  thousands  of  happy  ones  about  her,  came  a 
May  Queen,  and  among  the  heralds  that  preceded  her  in 
her  triumphant  flight  I  recognized  My  Sarah.  There  were 
no  marks  of  sin  upon  that  ebony  face;  it  was  far  more 
lovely  than  when  I  first  beheld  her.  The  vast  procession 
swept  past  me  and  left  her  standing  abashed  before  my 
astonished  gaze.  "Oh  wicked  Girl.  How  did  you  get 
here?"  I  cried  in  my  amazement.  "How  has  satan  gotten 
in  here  amongst  the  children  of  the  King?"  She  raised  her 
beautiful  brown  eyes  into  mine,  and  in  a  musical  voice  she 
said: 

"I  came  to  Jesus  as  I  was, 

Weary  and  worn  and  sad ; 

I  found  in  Him  a  resting  place, 

And  He  hath  made  me  glad. 
"In  that  land  where  I  met  you  life  lost  all  of  its  charms 
after  mother  died;  then  I  became  an  outcast;  for  no  one 
loved  or  pitied  me,  and  the  shafts  of  the  unsympathetic 
flew  at  me  with  such  unrelenting  fury  that  one  day,  weary 
and  tired,  I  lay  down  and  asked  my  Redeemer  to  take  me 
where  He  had  taken  my  mother.  Mother's  here,  just  over 
yonder  by  the  Silver  Lake  where  she  loves  to  sit.  Come, 
she  has  wanted  so  much  to  see  you  that  she  might  thank 
you  for  your  kindness  to  me.  Come;  hear  them  singing?" 
I  took  her  little  hand  in  mine  as  over  banks  of  beautiful 
flowers  we  skipped  along.  We  were  nearing  the  Silver 
Lake,  with  its  banks  waving  with  beautiful  palms,  when  a 
hand  was  laid  roughly  upon  my  shoulder  and  a  gruff  voice 
said:  "No  sleep'n  round  here  this  timer  nite." 

Far  out  atsea  the  waves  still  sparkling  in  the  moonlight 
seemed  to  laugh  in  triumph  at  me  in  my  disappointment. 
I  arose  and  sauntered  back  to  my  car,  and  on  the  following 
morning  as  the  train  pulled  out  I  stood  upon  the  platform 
that  I  might  see  the  old  city  fade  from  view. 

1 02 


EGYPT'S  GHOST 


A  Pullman  Porter's  Story 


One  evening-  in  the  autumn  of  '89  I  was  ordered  to  take 
a  load  of  passengers  to  St.  Louis  in  car  Egypt,  an  old 
"sleeper"  which  had  for  many  years  been  used  mainly  for 
special  service.  But  scarcity  of  cars  in  the  district  at  this 
time  had  necessitated  the  pressing  Of  this  car  in  as  an 
"extra,"  on  account  of  the  inpouring  of  returning  traveler 
from  over  the  seas,  crowding  trains  from  New  York  for 
every  section  of  the  country.  As  I  passed  through  the  sta- 
tion, the  immense  piles  of  luggage  and  the  great  hordes 
that  pressed  about  the  gates  led  me  to  believe  that  my  trip 
westward  would  be  exceptionally  prosperous.  But  to  my 
surprise  and  disappointment,  when  the  train  pulled  out, 
only  "lowers"  were  sold  in  Car  Egypt,  and  one  entire 
section — section  13 — was  empty.  The  scantiness  of  my 
load  did  not,  however,  so  disconcert  me  as  the  marked 
absence  of  female  passengers;  there  was  not  a  single 
woman  passenger  in  my  car.  In  the  opinion  of  some 
railroad  men,  the  absence  of  women  in  Pullman  cars  is 
an  omen  of  good  luck.  The  porter  who  could  say,  "I 
came  in  'chock-a-block'  and  without  a  single  woman," 
need  say  no  more  to  have  it  understood  that  he  had 
had  a  prosperous  trip.  While  few  men  could  thus  boast 
of  a  party  made  up  entirely  of  women,  most  car  service 
men  believe  that  without  her  presence  in  a  car  the  load 
is  incomplete.  The  woman  passenger  not  only  adds 
charm  to  and  in  numerous  ways  relieves  a  long  journey 
of  its  wonted  monotony,  but  her  presence  invariably 
draws  out  the  best  qualities  in  man  and  puts  him  upon 
his  mettle.  Although  the  woman  traveller  is  the  most 
skilful  in  art  of  culling  for  nickels  and  dimes,  it's  the 

103 


opinion  of  most  porters  "dead  bad  luck"  to  make  a 
journey  without  the  pleasant  little  annoyances  that  her 
presence  in  a  car  inevitably  occasion.  I  being  of  the 
latter  persuasion,  felt  ill  at  ease  over  this  state  of  affairs, 
although  my  passengers  seemed  to  be  of  the  sporty  sort, 
more  welcome  to  the  porter  than  any  other  class  of 
travelers. 

As  I  went  on  my  rounds  making  beds,  I  prepared 
number  13  for  a  chance  get-on  along  the  road;  but  we 
passed  the  principal  stations  without  a  call  for  a  bed  in 
any  car  in  the  train.  The  night  gradually  grew  old ;  con- 
versation in  the  smoking-room  waxed  cold  and  uninter- 
esting; the  men  one  by  one  threw  away  their  cigar  butts 
and  sought  their  beds,  leaving  the  porter  the  only  occu- 
pant. Alone :  there  is  nothing  at  that  hour  of  night  that 
a  porter  more  keenly  enjoys.  It  is  the  time  when  he, 
weary  and  exhausted  from  the  irksome  labor  of  bed- 
making,  falls  into  wakeful  slumber — the  sleep  of  a  cat, 
which  flees  away  at  the  slackening  of  speed,  the  round- 
ing of  a  curve,  the  blast  of  a  whistle,  the  ringing  of  a  bell ; 
a  sleep  which  infuses  into  the  weary  body  no  real  refresh- 
ing rest.  I  stretched  myself  out  upon  the  lounge  that  I 
might  enjoy  as  fully  as  possible  this  restless  sleep,  when 
instantly  there  came  a  long  and  vigorous  ring  of  the  bell. 
I  arose  and  scanned  the  indicator;  the  arrow  pointed  to 
13,  the  vacant  section.  As  indicators  often  register  wrong, 
I  walked  up  and  down  the  aisle  to  see  if  there  might  not 
be  a  head  protruding  from  between  the  curtains  of  some 
berth,  but  saw  none.  Passengers  often  make  mistakes 
and  go  into  the  wrong  berths :  I  looked  in  section  13,  it 
was  empty.  Apparently  everybody  was  fast  asleep.  I 
returned  to  the  smoking-room  and  stretched  out  again. 
A  signal  to  the  flagman  to  protect  the  rear  and  a  sudden 
check  of  the  train  aroused  me  a  second  time.  I  arose  and 
started  forward  to  learn  the  cause  of  the  sudden  stop, 
and  just  as  I  turned  into  the  aisle  I  saw  a  woman  in  her 
night  robe  right  in  front  of  section  13.  Her  back  was 
towards  me;  and  she  was  bent  over  as  though  in  search 
of  something  upon  the  floor.  I  hastened  toward  her,  sure 
that  she  was  a  passenger  from  the  car  ahead,  having  lost 

104 


her  bearings,  but  before  I  could  get  into  speaking  dis- 
tance of  her  she  disappeared  around  the  corner.  The  car 
next  mine  was  in  charge  of  Sammy  Boldes,  an  old  and 
well-liked  "regular"  on  old  No.  9  to  St.  Louis.  Entering 
Sam's  car  I  found  him  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  aisle  black- 
ing shoes. 

"Sam,"  said  I,  "why  do  you  allow  your  passengers  to 
go  blundering  around  to  find  themselves  going  to  bed 
in  another  car?"  "What  passengers?"  asked  he  sulkily. 
"There  are  no  women  in  my  car,  yet  one  was  standing 
in  the  aisle  just  now  and  she  came  this  way.  Didn't 
you  see  her?"  "No;  there  are  only  two  women  in  this 
car,  and  they  are  both  asleep  there  in  section  2,"  an- 
swered Sam,  jerking  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the 
direction  of  the  section  indicated.  "Where  did  that 
woman  go!"  I  scratched  my  head  in  perplexity.  "I 
guess  you've  been  dreaming,"  said  Sam,  looking  up  at 
me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye ;  "you'd  better  go  back 
and  get  to  blacking  up."  I  returned  to  my  car,  searched 
it  from  end  to  end  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  unoc- 
cupied space  before  settling  down  to  shoe  polishing. 
The  train  had  again  started  up  and  was  thundering  on 
at  its  usual  high  speed.  My  mind  had  become  so  per- 
turbed over  this  now  apparently  mysterious  episode  that 
sleep  had  entirely  forsaken  me.  When  everything  had 
been  gotten  in  readiness  for  my  passengers  who  would 
now  soon  be  getting  up,  I  sat  down  by  the  window  and 
began  to  meditate  upon  the  possible  truthfulness  of 
Sam's  assertion  that  I  had  been  dreaming:  it  seemed 
now  that  I  had.  I  pressed  my  hand  against  my  fore- 
head, it  was  hot  and  my  temples  were  throbbing  at  a 
terribly  rapid  rate.  I  lay  my  head  upon  the  window  sill 
that  the  autumn  winds  might  cool  my  temples.  "I  rang, 
Porter,"  said  a  soft  voice,  and  turning  my  head  quickly, 
I  beheld  the  woman  in  the  night  robe,  standing  in  the 
door  of  the  smoking-room.  She  was  running  her  fingers 
nervously  through  her  black  hair,  which  hung  loosely 
down  her  back,  and  was  staring  over  my  head  out 
through  the  window.  A  damp,  sickening  odor  filled  the 
room ;  and  the  pale  face  and  hollow  eyes  of  my  visitor 

105 


made  it  seem  that  I  was  in  a  tomb  in  the  presence  of 
a  resurrected  corpse.  "What  can  I  do  for  you,  madame !" 
I  stammered,  attempting"  to  rise.  She  fixed  her  gaze 
upon  me  and  the  look  of  horror  in  her  hollow  eyes 
riveted  me  to  the  spot,  and  with  a  voice  that  sounded 
like  some  one  far  away  at  dead  of  night,  she  said,  "My 
husband  is  dead.  They  told  me  he  had  gone  on  ahead 
of  us,  but  he  had  not.  He  was  asleep  in  section  13 
when  the  crash  came.  Come !  Help  me  search !"  Beck- 
oning eagerly  to  me  to  follow  her,  she  disappeared.  I 
arose  to  comply,  but  my  limbs  refused  to  support  me, 
and  I  fell  in  a  swoon  upon  the  floor. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  lay  upon  a  cot  in  a  large, 
plain,  white,  high-ceiling  room.  The  sun,  shining  in 
through  the  tall,  clean  windows,  shed  its  comforting 
rays  upon  upturned  faces  about  me,  forcing  smiles  of 
joy  and  gratitude  upon  nearly  every  faded  cheek.  I  was 
in  a  hospital ;  a  place  which  through  all  my  life  I  had 
associated  with  the  prison-house  of  despair;  a  last 
earthly  resort,  where  impatient,  inhuman  attendants 
only  waited  for  a  victim  to  die  and  did  not  hesitate  to 
administer  the  "black  bottle"  to  hasten  the  desired  end. 
By  the  window  nearest  my  cot  stood  three  white-capped 
nurses,  one  of  whom  on  seeing  my  eyes  turned  in  that 
direction,  came  and  bent  over  me.  "Where  am  I?"  I 
asked.  "You  are  in  St.  Louis,  in  the  Xavia  Hospital, 
brought  here  about  two  weeks  ago,"  she  answered 
sweetly.  "Why  was  I  brought  here,  please?"  I  asked 
again,  trying  to  penetrate  the  blank  past.  "You  were 
taken  off  your  car  at  the  Union  Station,  raving  with 
brain  fever.  But  you  must  ask  no  more  questions  now: 
your  case  is  a  critical  one  and  your  recovery  depends 
upon  absolute  quiet."  She  gently  took  hold  of  one  of 
my  wasted  hands  and  held  it  up  for  my  inspection,  to 
show  how  two  weeks'  illness  had  told  upon  me.  How 
thin  and  pale  it  was !  Tucking  the  covering  carefully 
about  me,  she  handed  me  a  newspaper,  pointed  to  a 
marked  item  in  a  corner  of  the  second  page,  smiled  and 
walked  away.     Sure  enough !    There  it  was ;  an  account 

106 


of  my  own  illness !  The  paper,  which  was  dated  Novem- 
ber 18th,  contained  the  following  brief,  i.  e.,  "Porter 
in  the  service  of  the  Pullman  Palace  Car  Com- 
pany, was  taken  off  his  car  this  morning  at  the  Union 
Station  ill  with  brain  fever.  The  young  man  was  so 
violent  that  it  required  the  efforts  of  four  men  to  hold 
him.     He  was  taken  to  Xavia  Hospital." 

Slowly  it  came  back  to  me ;  my  journey  from  New 
York  with  car  Egypt ;  that  woman !  her  story  of  her 
lost  husband. 

Yes,  I  had  been  ill,  very  ill ;  my  wasted  hands  showed 
it.  But  that  woman  with  her  distressful  story  was  not 
the  hallucination  of  a  fevered  brain.  I  saw  her !  It  was 
no  dream. 

A  few  months  afterwards,  not  having  fully  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  that  terrible  illness,  I  sat  waiting  my 
turn  in  Bullouch's  barber  shop  in  Jersey  City,  among  a 
few  other  railroad  men,  with  whom  was  Sammy  Boldes. 
"Well  old  boy,"  said  Sam,  eyeing  me  sympa- 
thetically, "you've  had  a  pretty  tough  time  of  it.  You 
should  have  staid  at  home  that  night."  "I  did  not  feel 
the  least  ill  when  I  left,"  I  answered.  "When  a  man's 
fever  is  so  high  that  he  sees  ghosts  his  place  is  at  home 
in  his  bed,"  said  he  chuckling.  "When  we  got  back 
there  in  answer  to  the  summons  of  the  frightened  brake- 
man,  you  were  raising  Sam  Henry  about  a  woman  in 
'section  13,'  and  I  don't  know  what  all."  "What  car  did 
he  have?"  asked  a  man  whose  hair  the  barber  was  giving 

its  finishing  touches.    "Old  car  Egypt,"  said  Sam . 

"And  that  woman  was  no  fancy,"  I  persisted.  "I  saw 
her."  The  man  in  the  chair  spoke  up  again :  "There's 
something  wrong  about  that  old  car.  I've  never  seen 
anything  while  in  her,  but  I  heard  some  mighty  queer 
noises,  so  much  so  that  I  left  her  one  night  while  laying 
over  at  Memphis,  and  went  up-town  to  sleep."  Porter 
Cumming,  a  veteran  in  the  service,  sitting  beside  me. 
raised  his  eyes  from  his  paper  and  listened  intently  to 
the  conversation  concerning  the  old  car,  but  said  noth- 
ing.    "There's  a  kind  of  sickening  feeling  that  I  can't 

107 


explain  which  came  over  me  when  I  had  that  old  car;  I 
felt  it  mostly  when  trying  to  sleep  in  the  smoking-room," 
and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  gentlemen,  I  believe  it's 
haunted,"  concluded  the  man,  as  he  rose  from  the  chair. 
As  I  left  the  barber  shop  and  started  toward  the  ferry 
to  cross  to  my  home  in  Brooklyn,  Porter  Cumming 
joined  me. 

"Your  talk  this  morning  about  old  car  Egypt  recalled 
to  my  mind  a  very  thrilling  experience  of  mine  in  con- 
nection with  its  history,"  said  he.  "That  car  is  haunted, 
and  I  know  it!  But  I  have  said  but  little  about  it  to 
any  one  for  fear  of  being  ridiculed  and  looked  upon  as 
'luny.' 

"I  see  that  you  have  been  ill;  and  it  was  brain  fever?" 
"But  I  was  perfectly  rational  as  regards  the  woman  in- 
cident, regardless  of  the  state  of  my  mind  afterwards." 

"What  did  you  see?"  I  related  my  experience  as 
minutely  as  I  could  remember  it.  "In  the  spring  of  '85," 
he  began,  "I  was  running  regularly  between  here  and 
Washington,  leaving  Jersey  City  on  the  'Owl'  and  com- 
ing in  on  old  '78.'  One  morning  as  I  went  to  the  office 
to  report  and  'sign  out,'  I  was  told  that  I  with  three 
other  men  had  been  selected  to  make  a  special  trip  to 
Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  with  a  bridal  party  from  New  York 
City.  The  following  day  we  busied  ourselves  putting  in 
the  immense  stock  of  provisions  required  and  making 
other  preparations  for  the  long  journey.  The  party 
was  to  leave  that  evening,  proceeding  from  the  church  to 
the  train.  It  consisted  of  the  bridal  pair,  the  family  phy- 
sician, four  lady  friends,  and  a  man  and  maid-servant. 
At  our  disposal  we  had  two  cars  ■  a  hotel  and  observa- 
tion car  and  a  sleeper,  which  of  course  was  car  Egypt. 

"We  were  to  go  direct  to  Los  Angeles,  via  Chicago, 
and  remain  there  about  three  weeks.  From  thence  we 
were  to  journey  southward  into  Mexico,  and  make  our 
way  homeward  by  way  of  New  Orleans.  It  was  indeed  a 
first  class  party  of  rich  and  cultured  people.  The  bride, 
a  tall  and  handsome  brunette,  was  the  life  of  the  party, 
enslaving  us  all  by  her  vivacity  and  sweetness  of  disposi- 
tion ;  she  entered  into  everything  that  meant  for  making 

108 


the  trip  one  of  pleasure  and  recreation.  One  evening, 
just  eight  weeks  after  leaving  New  York,  we  pulled  out 
of  New  Orleans,  homeward  bound  over  the  great  Louis- 
ville and  Nashville  railroad.  All  other  trains  had  been  or- 
dered to  give  us  the  right  of  way  and  we  thundered  up 
the  road  at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles  an  hour.  A  few  miles 
south  of  Birmingham,  Ala.,  a  freight  train  having  side- 
tracked had  failed  to  throw  the  'switch,'  and  our  train 
rushed  into  the  siding  and  was  wrecked,  killing  the  engi- 
neer, severely  scalding  the  fireman  and  crushing  the  bride- 
groom and  the  manservant  beyond  recognition. 

"These  two  slept  opposite  the  bride,  who,  with  others 
of  the  party,  escaped  with  slight  bruises.  Old  car  Egypt, 
in  which  they  all  slept,  seemed  to  have  gotten  the  fullest 
force  of  the  blow.  It  was  a  pitiful  and  awful  sight  to  see 
that  young  woman,  the  bride,  pulling  her  hair  in  the  agony 
of  her  grief  as  she  followed  us  about  in  our  search  for  the 
missing  men;  and  when  the  truth  was  revealed  to  her  she 
went  completely  mad  then  and  there.  'Oh,  Frank,  don't 
sleep  in  that  berth!  I'm  superstitious.  Come,  Frank,  it's 
time  to  get  up.  I  wonder  how  long  it  will  be  before  we 
get  home,  I'm  tired  of  this  wearisome  journey,'  she  would 
wail  softly,  and  then  burst  into  hysterical  laughing  and 
weeping.  I  will  never  as  long  as  I  live  forget  that  scene. 
A  telegram  to  Birmingham  brought  down  a  car-load  of 
railroad  officials  and  physicians,  and  the  party,  with  their 
belongings,  were  taken  to  that  city  and  we  saw  them  no 
more.  About  six  months  after  that  I  met  the  lady's  maid 
on  Fifth  Avenue  in  New  York  and  she  told  me  that  her 
mistress  never  recovered,  but  died  a  raving  maniac  in  a 
private  asylum  in  less  than  two  months  after  reaching 
home.  The  two  cars  were  'shopped'  and  completely  over- 
hauled and  made  more  inviting  inside  and  out.  One  night 
at  least  a  year  afterwards,  car  Egypt  was  assigned  to  me 
for  a  trip  on  the  'owl.'  Sitting  down  at  the  window  to 
enjoy  a  smoke  after  my  passengers  had  retired,  I  could 
hear  that  wretched  woman's  wails  and  sobs  just  as  plainly 
as  I  heard  her  on  that  night.  I  was  so  frightened  that  I 
started  to  go  forward  into  the  car  ahead  of  me;  but  just 

109 


as  I  got  into  the  aisle  I  saw  just  what  you  saw  in  front  of 
Section  13 — it  was  that  very  woman  with  her  head  bent 
forward  precisely  as  you  described  her.  I  turned  about, 
went  back,  and  stood  in  the  door  until  the  train  reached 
Washington.  And  you  bet  your  life  I  was  too  sick  to 
go  out  when  the  time  came  for  me  to  come  back  to  Jersey. 
That  woman's  ghost  will  follow  that  car  as  long  as  it  ex- 
ists, and  the  only  way  to  lay  it  is  to  burn  car  Egypt." 


no 


'THE  CAP'N." 


A  Pullman  Porter's  Story. 


"Look  out  for  the  Cap'n !"  Every  car  service  man  knew 
him  from  the  Lakes  to  the  Gulf,  and  from  Maine  to  the  Pa- 
cific Coast.  To  say  that  this  individual  had  boarded  a 
train  or  alighted  from  a  train  on  the  same  line  as  many 
as  a  hundred  miles  away  has  sent  a  thrill  of  terror  through 
many  a  porter  and  driven  sleep  from  his  eyes.  The  Cap'n 
at  one  time  had  been  a  District  Superintendent  of  the  Pull- 
man Palace  Car  Co.,  but  not  being  a  success  in  that  capac- 
ity, was  promoted  ( ?)  to  the  office  of  "Inspector" — of-er- 
Cars — I  suppose  that  was  the  original  meaning  or  inten- 
tion of  the  authorities — but  the  name  of  the  office  as  the 
Cap'n  filled  it  was  Legion. 

He  inspected  everything,  making  a  specialty  of  em- 
ployes, to  whom  he  was  an  undying  worm  and  an  un- 
quenchable fire.  Surely  the  Cap'n  entered  his  true  calling 
when  he  was  made  "Inspector."  Nothing  pleased  the  Cap'n 
more  than  to  slip  up  on  and  catch  a  porter  or  conductor 
off  his  guard — "asleep  on  duty,"  or  "not  out  with  his  step- 
ping box,"  or  "putting  up  beds  without  using  the  box  or 
'shamy,'  "  etc.,  etc.  It  was  often  said  of  the  old  fellow 
that  he  was  nearer  akin  to  the  devil  than  any  other  human 
being;  for,  like  his  satanic  majesty,  he  was  omnipresent, 
often  appearing  like  a  spectre  before  unwary  conductors 
and  porters  while  trains  were  running  at  their  highest 
speed.  This  I  cannot  vouch  for,  but  I  do  know  that  he 
has  often  put  himself  to  the  inconvenience  of  standing  for 
hours  at  some  secluded  flag  station  in  order  to  slyly  board  a 
train  at  its  foremost  end  and  sneak  back  to  the  sleeper  to 
loook  for  irregularities  to  report.  "Look  out  for  the 
Cap'n!"     This  was  the  familiar  warning  throughout  the 

in 


length  and  breadth  of  country  wherever  the  Pullman  car 
has  rolled.     Men  often  sent  telegrams  of  warning — "TRe 

Cap'n  got  off  at station !   Look  out !"    "Look  out 

for  the  Cap'n,  he  may  get  on  your  train  out  of  Jersey 
City  tonight. 

He  entered  a  sleeping  car  one  night,  and,  finding  the 
porter  asleep,  seated  himself  beside  him  that  he  might 
fill  the  poor  wretch  with  terror  when  he  awoke.  But  the 
old  fellow,  being  tired,  was  soon  himself  fast  asleep.  The 
train  conductor  passing,  and  seeing  through  the  Cap'n's 
trick,  gently  awakened  the  porter,  pointed  to  the 
sleeper  beside  him  and  went  on  his  way.  When  the  Cap'n 
awoke  the  porter  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  car  blacking 
shoes.    This  incident  was  never  reported. 

The  first  time  that  I  encountered  the  old  gentleman  was 
just  two  months  after  my  entrance  into  the  service  of  the 
company.  He  boarded  a  Coast  Line  train  out  from  Jersey 
City,  N.  J.,  one  evening,  and  to  my  discomfort  paid  very 
much  attention  to  the  car  under  my  charge.  After  search- 
ing every  hole  and  corner  in  the  car,  it  seemed  to  me  he 
paused  in  the  aisle  to  watch  me  make  beds.  Beckoning  me 
to  him,  finally  he  said:  "Remove  that  toothpick  from  your 
mouth,  Porter;  it  doesn't  look  well."  I  complied  and  went 
on  with  my  work.  He  remained  and  watched  me  for  a 
few  moments  longer,  then  went  on  into  the  car  ahead  of 
mine.  About  two  trips  after  this  incident,  on  entering  the 
superintendent's  office  in  Jersey  City  the  chief  clerk  called 
me  to  his  desk  and  read  to  me  the  following  report :  "On 
car  Severn,  out  of  Jersey  City,  train  No.  15,  August,  23, 
1888,  I  noticed  that  the  porter  held  a  toothpick  between 
his  teeth.  I  called  him  to  me  and  gently  requested  that  he 
remove  it,  as  it  did  not  look  well.  In  complying,  he  acted 
surly,  threw  the  toothpick  behind  him,  I  think  on  a  pas- 
senger's lap,  and  angrily  flaunted  the  sheets  and  blankets 
in  the  passengers'  faces."  "Shameless  liar!"  I  answered 
inwardly,  as  I  bit  my  lips.  Truthful  as  I  might  be  and 
honest,  his  word  would  carry  all  the  weight,  I  thought,  as 
I  stood  there  like  a  criminal  condemned  and  awaiting  sen- 
tence. I  was  too  astonished  at  the  Judas-like  duplicity  of 
this  old  chap  in  whose  presence  I  had  done  my  best,  to  Jo 

112 


more  than  to  say  that  it  was  reasonable  to  suppose  that  I 
would  be  extremely  careful  of  my  conduct  in  the  presence 
of  the  man  whose  power  and  reputation  I  so  well  knew, 
even  for  that  length  of  time  in  the  Pullman  service.  ''You 
must  try  and  cultivate  better  manners,"  answered  the  chief 
clerk,  handing  me  a  slip  of  paper,  which  read  as  follows: 
''Porter  D.  B.  Fulton,  you  are  hereby  suspended  for  five 
days,  your  salary  to  cease  from  now  until  September  2d, 
1888.''  Five  days'  pays  was  quite  a  good  deal  to  lose  out  of 
a  small  salary — and  for  nothing.  I  left  the  office  with 
tempest  raging  in  my  soul  and  with  a  strong  desire  to 
catch  "by  the  throat  the  uncircumcised  dog"  who  could  so 
abuse  his  authority  as  to  so  brazenly  utter  an  untruth  and 
thereby  do  injury  to  an  humble  fellow.  I  learned  after- 
wards that  the  best  way  to  avoid  getting  into  trouble  with 
this  old  fellow  was  to  flatter  him;  follow  him  about  the 
car  whenever  he  boarded  it;  ask  very  anxiously  about  his 
health,  his  wife's  health ;  invite  him  into  your  'buffet"  to 
help  himself  to  your  choicest  whiskies,  wines,  and  cigars, 
or  the  best  lunch  you  could  prepare.  The  porter  that  fol- 
lowed this  course  in  his  treatment  of  the  Cap'n  never  got 
an  ill  report,  it  mattered  not  in  what  condition  he  or  his  car 
was  found. 

What  a  character  for  such  a  position !  Extremely  selfish 
and  revengeful,  the  old  fellow  was  ever  ready  to  resent 
even  what  seemed  to  be  a  disregard  for  him  in  his  official 
capacity.  It  is  said  that  he  followed  one  porter  for  years 
against  whom  he  held  a  grudge,  seeking  to  find  something 
against  him  to  report.  But  as  this  man  ran  regularly  be- 
tween Philadelphia  and  Pittsburgh  and  was  old  in  the  ser- 
vice, it  was  difficult  to  lodge  a  complaint  against  him  that 
would  cause  him  to  lose  more  than  time  required  to  write 
a  statement.  The  superintendents  in  these  respective  dis- 
tricts knew  well  the  Cap'n's  duplicity,  sensitiveness  and  sel- 
fishness; and  this  feeling  of  disregard  for  him  often  con- 
signed his  reports  to  the  waste  basket  as  malicious  false- 
hoods. This  porter,  knowing  of  the  Cap'n's  unpopularity 
in  the  two  districts  mentioned,  and  the  high  esteem  in  which 
the  respective  superintendents  were  held  by  the  company, 

113 


never  let  slip  an  opportunity  to  show  his  contempt  for  the 
old  fellow,  thereby  making  him  writhe  in  indignation  and 
desire  for  revenge.  Passing  through  old  "number  ten"  at 
Harrisburgh  one  night  the  Cap'n  found  his  old  enemy  fast 
asleep  on  duty ;  and  so  delighted  was  he  over  the  anticipated 
sweet  draught  of  revenge  that  he  jumped  out  upon  the  sta- 
tion platform  and  shouted,  "I've  got  th'  coon  at  last! 
I've  got  th'  coon  at  last!"  "Who  is  it,  Cap'n?"  asked  sev- 
eral trainmen,  who  gathered  around,  attracted  by  the  old 
fellow's  antics.  "Why,  it's  ol'  Joe,  fast  asleep."  But  al- 
though his  report  of  the  incident  was  carefully  worded, 
dwelling  at  length  upon  the  importance  of  "the  careful 
guarding  of  cars,"  "the  prevalence  of  thieves  in  large 
stations,"  the  "liabilities  of  the  company  in  the  event  of 
robberies  through  the  incompetency  of  employees,"  etc., 
he  could  not  effect  the  loss  to  "Joe"  of  a  single  day.  Tob 
Jones  and  the  Cap'n  were  old  cronies ;  and  it  is  alleged  that 
his  liking  for  Tob  often  hid  a  multitude  of  faults — and  Tob 
had  faults  by  the  multitude.  But  the  Cap'n  caught  Tob  in 
a  predicament  one  night,  however,  that  would  have  caused 
him  to  shake  his  brother  and  it  was  only  Tob's  cunning  that 
saved  him  from  being  shook,  for  Tob  Jones  was  not  easily 
trapped.  The  Cap'n,  knowing  that  Tob  was  in  charge  of  a 
certain  car,  boarded  it  at  Harrisburgh — not  to  give  his 
friend  trouble,  but  for  a  friendly  chat;  the  Cap'n  wouldn't 
"peach"  on  Tob  if  it  could  be  avoided.  He  searched  the 
car  from  end  to  end,  but  saw  nothing  of  the  "faithful" 
Tobias.  Passing  through  a  third  time  in  despair,  the  Cap'n 
discovered  Tob's  black-socked  foot  protruding  from  between 
the  curtains  of  an  upper  berth.  Seizing  this  extremity,  the 
old  fellow  called  in  a  stage  whisper,  "Tobias!  Tobias! 
Tobias !"  Now,  it's  only  the  veteran  porter  that  can  awaken 
decently,  without  stretching,  yawning,  garping  and  blandly 
betraying  himself.  Tobias  was  an  expert.  The  first  tug 
at  Tob's  foot  awoke  him,  but  he  didn't  move ;  not  he.  When 
the  Cap'n  made  a  third  tug,  Tob  eased  his  foot  in,  poked 
out  his  head  and  gave  his  old  friend  one  of  those  freezing 
yet  mirth-provoking  stares,  which  only  Tob  could  give. 
"She-e-e  Cap'n,"  he  whispered,  "I'm  watchin'  'im,  I'm  got 

114 


ma  eye  on  'im."  "What  is  the  matter,  Tob?"  asked  the 
Cap'n  impatiently.  "She-e-e!  dars  er  man  in  disher  neath 
berth  heah,  pok'n  his  han'  roun'  dar  an'  tryin'  ter  rob  dat 
lady  in  de  one  er  head  but  I'm  on  ter  'im ;  I  heered  you 
when  you  fus  cum  in,  but  I  wanted  ter  keep  ma  eye  on  dis 
feller,"  concluded  Tob,  stretching  his  eyes  and  spreading  his 
huge  palm  before  the  now  deeply  interested  Cap'n  to  make 
his  words  the  more  impressive.  "That's  right,  Tob,"  said 
the  Cap'n,  passing  on.  The  old  fellow  learned  how  badly 
he  had  been  fooled  when,  one  evening,  he  passed  through 
the  station  at  Jersey  City  and  overheard  some  men  laugh- 
ing and  talking  about  how  Tob  had  outwitted  the  Cap'n. 
It  was  the  Cap'n's  delight  to  sit  in  district  superintendents ' 
offices  and  relate  his  many  amusing  experiences  with  em- 
ployees on  the  roads.  One  day,  away  down  South,  he  came 
across  a  car  side-tracked  in  quite  a  lonely  spot,  went 
through  it  and  found  it  deserted.  A  few  rods  away,  in  a 
watermelon  patch,  he  came  upon  the  conductor  and  porter, 
who,  having  filled  up  on  the  juicy  fruit,  had  spread  a  towel 
on  the  ground  and  were  earnestly  engaged  in  the  game  of 
"seven  up."  Cautiously  approaching  the  two  men,  the 
Cap'n  said:  "Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  but  are  you  in  charge 
of  that  car  over  yonder?"  "Yas,  we's  in  charge  er  dat 
kiar  over  yander ;  an'  wut  erbout  hit?"  answered  the  colored 
man,  without  even  looking  up  at  the  questioner.  "I  thought 
that  if  you  were  you  are  quite  a  distance  from  your  charge, 
that's  all,"  returned  the  Cap'n.  "Dat  ar  kiar  ain't  gonter 
run  erway — yo'  deal,  Cap"  (to  the  conductor).  "If  anybody 
starts  off  with  her,  I  reckon  we  can  overhaul  'em  before 
they  can  get  far  away,  old  man,"  said  the  conductor  care- 
lessly. "I  beg  Jim"  (to  the  porter).  "Some  people's  all  de 
time  mekin'  deyself  fresh  'bout  deseyer  kiars,"  said  the 
porter,  issuing  a  couple  of  cards  to  the  conductor.  "Sup- 
pose the  Cap'n  should  come  along  and  find  that  car  un- 
guarded?" "Who  de  hell's  de  Cap'n?"  demanded  the  porter. 
"He's  nobody's  daddy,"  chimed  in  the  conductor.  "Cut  the 
cards,  Jim"  (to  the  porter).  "There  seems  to  be  so  much 
red  tape  about  this  sleeping  car  business,"  he  continued. 
"Why,  a  fellow  can't  go  out  and  get  a  quiff  of  fresh  air  and 

"5 


recreation  but  what  he's  got  to  be  ding-donged  at  about 
'the  rules'  and  'the  Cap'n;'  damn  the  Cap'n!"  "An'  I  say 
de  same,"  exclaimed  the  porter;  "good  fer  nuthin'  ol'  flop- 
yeared  varmint.     High,  low,  Jack  an'  de  game!" 

"My  feelings  at  this  stage  had  become  so  wrought  up 
over  these  unexpected  compliments  that  I  could  restrain 
myself  no  longer.  Snatching  out  my  notebook,  I  exclaimed : 
'I'm  the  Cap'n,  and  I  demand  that  you  get  on  that  car  and 
be  quick  about  it.'  The  nigger  rolled  all  the  way  to  the 
car  and  rolled  in  at  the  window,  while  the  astonished  and 
frightened  conductor  walked  behind  me  making  excuses 
and  apologies ;  he  was  new  in  the  service  and  unacquainted 
with  the  rules,  etc.     I  let  them  off  with  ten  days  each." 

JACK  THORNE. 


116 


^r.Wil* 


EiiP 

$S5j 

K^U 

jPj^TpV 

tBi^mflr^ 

wiH^L^fc 

;  V 


o 


< 

j^ 

<*) 

< 

^Cr 

s 

j) 

T 

»    1 

« 

) 

**» 

1 

^ 

5 

. 


Pwl 

jJfA^C 

5» 

#J*gLl 

iMfl 

JV 

ftxF^J 

J§0 

PvJ% 

^i^nU! 

fc^r^ 

Lack's  iT 

